Full House
by Aki1
Summary: History repeats itself, despite our best efforts. Years after Requiem, Zero retreats from the world's new-found chaos and pays a visit to the man he murdered. / post-R2, SuzaLulu / 4-shot
1. i

Disclaimer: _Code Geass_ – with its characters, settings, and all other borrowed elements here – is the sole property of its creators. I own nothing, though you know – I would if I could.

Author's Notes: I've been sitting on this request for some time, and it's from an old friend of mine. She asked me to write (her words, not mine) something prompted by this: '_how about: seven years post-R2, Requiem had succeeded, and then fallen apart. Suzaku's mind is broken, Lelouch is weary and needs reparation, and small house on the prairie; in four acts representing four suits of cards._'

In short, a darker execution of the 'Lelouch lives!' premise, in which basically Zero Requiem failed. That's…what this is, and what this will be.

Warnings: General _weirdness_ (italics: totally justified) and 'boatloads of angst.' Also, spoilers for everything up to the end of R2, so if you haven't finished the series you may want to click away right about now.

Enjoy.

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_full house_

**act i **

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And he finally understood, years after the fact, why his platoon leader would often stop at the door to the barracks, carefully inserting an ace of spades into his helmet. Spades are the suit of war. In some countries they represent swords; in others, shields. But they always signify conflict, pain, vivid visions in his mind of a charred playing card fused into scalp while the rest of the city went up in flames.

Suzaku was sixteen, then.

Swords - there have been many of them throughout the years, each entitled to a cut of his life. He remembers the first time Tohdoh lowered the _bokuto_ onto his hands - the older man warned him not to underestimate its power, and spoke as well of other things (_of balance, of trust_) that were all blotted out by how the weapon weighed so much more than it looked. He remembers the press of the tip of his blade onto his shoulders and head, how Euphemia's handling of the ceremonial sword was gentler even than her kisses were – it was the same sword Charles used less than a year later, although the steel was heavy and threatened to cut through all the regalia as his new title was practically sneered at him: Knight of Seven, of His Majesty, of Britannia. He remembers the sword he ran through Lelouch, the way it cut through blood and tissue somehow translating up his hands, the way neither of them said goodbye.

(Shields - It isn't until 2025 that C.C. finally returns. A pretty smile on her lips, a handkerchief holding up her hair and hiding the sigil on her forehead, she saunters into his room in a carefully-hidden hallway of the Imperial Palace at half-past midnight. She closes the door behind her and is already lounging on his bed by the time he remembers to breathe. "Hello, _boya_.")

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* * *

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The world was indeed a better place after Lelouch died. Removing 'the enemy' brought people closer in exactly the way Lelouch had predicted, solving their problems through dialogue and open-mindedness. It was an encouraging sight: Nunnally and Kaguya and all the leaders past and present showing grace and empathy, the sincere desire to make everything better. Suzaku often stood behind the Empress as she spoke words of encouragement to nations battered by war, and although he didn't speak often, he told himself many times that he wouldn't mind fighting to protect this as long as he lived.

Those were the first five years.

By the sixth, this perfect portrait of a world at peace was beginning to crack. Perhaps Charles was onto something, after all, since nothing – not even FLEIJA, not even Lelouch, not even Zero – could change some facts. Such as: how people were not born equal, and countries were not made equal, and how earlier blunders were easy to forget and thus just as easy to make again. Peace could not stop famine, or droughts, or earthquakes that rocked entire nations and flooded others with the ensuing tsunamis. It was no-one's fault that these disasters struck, or that aid could not be delivered fast enough. But the latter was a tricky sell.

The need to rebuild after the Demon Emperor's reign was gone; that chapter had passed, and people moved on. What they moved on to was a world that was imperfect from the start, and it wasn't long before news of this president hoarding _this_, those corporate heads plotting _that_, began to trickle down the public's consciousness. Rhetoric and ideals were ephemeral, Lelouch had told him before, but surely this was better than Ragnarok? Surely they made the right choice?

The first night that question began to plague him, Zero excused himself early from an international conference and retreated to his room. That the thought even made it to his mind carried more implications with it than he thought he could bear, and so...

Well.

Perhaps it was a number of things, really. There was desperation, and panic, the sickening realization that everything he'd worked for and fought for and legally _died_ for may have been for naught, and there was no-one to tell him otherwise...in any case, before he could rationalize it further he'd already locked the door and withdrawn the box, and the prick of the needle was no match for the burning in his veins.

(The first time Suzaku used Refrain, its effect lasted a full four hours - just enough to relive most of that night he killed his father.)

The next morning, he threw the applicator angrily against the wall, swearing the whole time, and couldn't believe he'd ever considered forcing it on Kallen.

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* * *

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(But he gave it a second chance, and perhaps that was his mistake.)

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* * *

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Time marches on, because it can do nothing else. It's now been a little over seven years since the death of Lelouch vi Britannia, Demon Emperor.

Seventy-two hours ago, a former viscount was assassinated in Belarus.

Fifty-eight hours ago, the words 'pre-emptive strike' were used for the first time in recent memory. Nunnally was firm in her condemnation as she shot down the idea, but the chaos in the board room took away from that.

Thirty-six hours ago, the Empress of Britannia gave a much-awaited press conference to an agitated public. Minutes after it ended, she grasped his hand as he pushed her wheelchair through an empty hallway, and her voice wavered as she made a request. She made him promise.

Five hours ago – because this was a weekly occurrence that did not stop for death or protests or an impending war – he took an unmarked box from Schneizel's hands.

And it's now been seven seconds since C.C. rolled onto her stomach atop his mattress, greeting him – "It's been awhile, Kururugi Suzaku" – in Japanese.

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* * *

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_The Knave of Spades was Ogier the Dane. In all the legends, he was a man driven by revenge, because when is 'an eye for an eye' easier on the heart than when the blood of a beloved is spilled by the hands of another? _

_It was his to have. He slew Charlot, son of Charlemagne, and would have taken his revenge further had fate (or was it something else?) not intervened._

_For seven years hatred continued to fester._

_But seven years is not forever, and sometimes neither is hatred. Ogier eventually made peace with Charlemagne. And so perhaps it is only fitting that to this day, he is often remembered not as the king's enemy, but rather as his knight._

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* * *

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"You don't look entirely surprised."

Suzaku watches mutely as C.C. puts away slice after slice of pizza – _'Gods, how I've missed this,'_ she said as soon as it arrived, delivered from one of the kitchen staff who was too polite to ask how Zero could be hungry at such an unholy hour. He feels as though maybe she expects the revelation she just made – over a mouthful of cheese, no less – to have more of an effect on him than it does. But as it is... "I'm not." He swallows and avoids her pointed stare, choosing instead to address the carpet. "Not really, anyway."

Because he remembers, in the weeks leading up to Requiem, when the wounds from his final battle with Kallen had healed and there was _nothing else_ waiting for him but this: how Lelouch assured him, coaxed him down from the rooftop, glared at him with a roll of eyes across the chessboard, or held him close as he woke up shivering and unable to breathe in the middle of the night. _'There's no other way,'_ Lelouch had said, each of those times. _'There's no backup plan.'_

Two days before his death he'd stopped at the first sentence. Suzaku smiled weakly and tried to pre-empt the second one, but his attempt was met only with a close-lipped smile.

That, and after twenty-five years he isn't sure anything can surprise him anymore.

"How long?" he finally asks.

C.C. laughs at him as she pops a bit of crust into her mouth, reaching for yet another slice. "Can that question be any more vague?" she muses idly. "How long has it been since I've had pizza? How long will it be before I _finish_ this pizza? How long is the trip from Pendragon to – ?"

"How long has he been alive?"

She hums thoughtfully. A string of cheese bridges her lips and the bite mark at the end of the slice in her hands. "Since the very day you killed him. It doesn't take much, you know. He had Charles' code when we left C's World. The only thing he needed was a trigger."

Suzaku looks at his hands. _It doesn't take much_. It certainly doesn't, not to recall the blood leaking onto his gloves, crusting dry on the surface of the mask. He hears Nunnally sobbing against the cheers of the crowd in the back of his head...and then he sees C.C. here, now, daintily plucking at olives and nibbling off the cheese before setting them aside. A shift threatens to upset his stomach, and something (not his heart, no – something lower) aches. Is this what betrayal feels like?

Stupid question. Betrayal is holding a dying Euphy in his arms, or watching a million people dressed as Zero walk free, or – he knows it, _executed_ it, well enough. This: he doesn't even know _what_ this is. He doesn't want to believe it might be hope.

"How is he?" It's a dangerous question to ask, he knows, but it's already been said. He asks another one, equally dangerous, and realizes there isn't going to be a learning curve to this conversation. "What does he want?"

"He's doing just fine. Perpetually bored, but otherwise..." She trails off, picking at crumbs on the empty tray before placing it unceremoniously onto his side-table. "He wants," C.C. smacks her lips and rolls back onto the bed, releasing a contented little sigh. "What does he want. He wants to see you."

_That_ surprises him, although it probably shouldn't.

"I...I can't," he stammers, after a long pause. He tries not to dwell on thoughts that begin with _'what if'_ and _'how soon'_. "He knows I can't...Zero – "

"Oh come on now, the timing is perfect. Wasn't it just yesterday morning that Her Majesty asked if perhaps Zero could maintain a low profile for a little while? Something about his image possibly being associated with revolution and unrest. Yes?"

Suzaku looks at her for a long time. At that moment, the chaotic mess of emotion stirring within him (not-betrayal, and not-hope, he convinces himself) changes into something else. "How...how do you know about that?"

C.C. shrugs and nonchalantly peels off her clothes, tossing the garments onto a chair and tucking herself beneath his sheets until only her face is visible. He's too surprised to look away. "It would only be a week," she informs him. "And before you ask, the answer is 'whenever your stubbornness runs out and you realize this is for your own good.' He told me to stay until then." She rolls to her side, showing him her back. "His words, by the way."

He stands up. "C.C. - "

"A gentleman would sleep on the floor," she cuts in. "We can argue in the morning." And that ends that.

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* * *

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But C.C. shows no promise of leaving his bed until noon, and so Suzaku dresses mutely, set to prowl the palace until he can get some clarity of mind. He winces as the stiff material of the suit jacket scrapes against the skin on the inside of his elbow. It goes unseen, because by now it's become routine that the mask always goes on first.

(Last night's reprieve, a good hour after he was certain C.C. had drifted off to sleep, revolved around Lelouch: memories of Ashford, mostly, those few moments as Euphemia's knight and fewer still as Knight of Seven that he'd burned into his mind and kept tucked into a corner of his psyche.)

The day begins to unravel when he sees Jeremiah in one of the dining rooms.

"Lord Zero." He rises from his seat at the table and nods. "It has been awhile."

Seven years of being in the constant presence of politicians and diplomats, not to mention several enlightening conversations with Kaguya on how to survive this strange and complicated system, enable Suzaku to return the greeting before blurting out the question of the hour. They trade pleasantries over eggs benedict and flavored croissants: the orange farm, last season's harvest, Anya and how she's been doing. Jeremiah looks as though he hasn't aged a day, although his skin has been somewhat browned by the constant sunlight. He still sports the familiar, bright orange accessory framing his eye, and at least once Suzaku finds himself staring at that eye – _the mechanical one, the one with the canceller_ – and he _thinks_, but just as soon he forgets.

"So what brings you here?" It's been well over half an hour by now, and they've about run out of minutiae to discuss. Suzaku fiddles with a teaspoon from the setting in front of him, but he doesn't eat. Not even if they're alone. "The press conference yesterday defused some of the tension, and most of it's been contained within the E.U. regardless."

"That's true." Jeremiah flashes him a small smile, but when he takes a sip of his coffee there is a furrow in his brows that gives him away. "And that's fortunate, since these first few days after the tragedy are key. But I haven't come to serve as a soldier in a war that has yet to break, no."

"Then why _have_ you come?"

Jeremiah nudges something at the foot of the table with his shoe, and only now does Suzaku spy the pair of bags sitting propped against the leg of his chair. "I am merely here as a guest of the palace. I could not refuse, given Her Majesty's insistence, and the fact that it's been truly awhile since I've been in Pendragon."

"That's wonderful," tumbles out of his mouth, automatically. But there's something about the timing that nags at him. "How long will you be staying?"

The man shrugs slightly, and finishes the rest of his coffee. "Seven days. After which I have to return to the farm. Anya is becoming very skilled, but I don't want to leave her alone for too long..."

Suzaku returns to his room not long after that. He rushes up the stairs so fast the walls become a blur, and he throws open the door with such force that it slams into the adjacent wall. But the green-haired witch is nowhere to be seen.

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* * *

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So he doesn't get his answers from C.C., not yet. In hindsight, he doesn't quite know what possessed him to think he _ever_ would. Although the months he'd spent with that strange woman (after stopping Ragnarok, and before...) were few, they were enough.

It isn't so much the fact that Lelouch is alive, he tells himself. That he died once for the world was all that was important for Zero Requiem, and so it doesn't change the outcome, or _his_ punishment, if Lelouch was – (his mind stalls and takes a moment before settling on the word '_reborn_'). It isn't that in itself that bothers him. What does: seven years of silence, and now _this_. If Lelouch truly hadn't been dead a day, then why did he wait this long before making contact? Was he even planning to at all, or did something happen? And why _now_, when –

"...So I hope you aren't offended or anything." Nunnally's voice cuts into his thoughts, not unlike a knife in its precision. "People haven't been asking for Zero yet, so that's a good sign so far. I'm just sorry you have to stay hidden like this."

"It's all right," Suzaku answers. His grip tightens just a bit on the handles of her wheelchair as he spots the entrance to the indoor garden fast approaching, but he doesn't falter in his steps. When she returned to the palace he told her, after much deliberation, about C.C. returning. And she hadn't seemed surprised at all; she simply glanced once over her shoulder, where Sayoko bowed graciously, turned back to him and smiled. _'Perhaps we can visit the gardens today, Lord Zero?'_ had been her reply to that.

The glass doors slide open before they cross the threshold. While Lelouch's secret code with Suzaku was a formidable thing, with hundreds of hand-signals, it isn't the only one he's come to know. 'Let's go to the garden': _'I'd like to speak with you alone.'_

It's here, among roses and carnations and scores of other flowers with all names, shapes, and colors, that he first removed Zero's mask in front of another person. Nunnally hadn't seemed surprised then either, only giving him a curious eye...which was when he _remembered_ and, flushing at his stupidity, took her hand in his and called her by name without the voice-changer.

And even after that, she still didn't seem surprised.

"You don't mind, though, do you?"

"I don't." The doors hiss shut behind them. There's a fountain in the center of the sprawling room, and some of it feeds the koi pond spanned by a tiny bridge. Nunnally likes it here best, where the air always smells fresh and clean. "Not really, anyway. I understand what Zero meant to the people before."

She nods. "They probably know you're not the same person. But Zero did stand for rebellion and chaos. I'm sure they remember, and the last thing we need right now is for that memory to trigger something. Symbols can be powerful things."

"Of course." He's never said it aloud, but Nunnally has grown up gracefully. At twenty-one, she speaks with confidence and pride that resemble Lelouch, but also a quiet elegance that echoes Euphy's. Memories can be powerful things too, can't they? He supposes he knows this all too well. "I can see why it's necessary, Your Majesty – "

"Nunnally," she corrects, the slightest hint of a song in her voice.

" – and if it will help keep the situation under control, I'll stay." Suzaku injects a grin into his words, but the voice-changer botches it somewhat. "If nothing else, I can keep Lord Jeremiah company."

"Well." She switches the controls on the arm of her wheelchair, and maneuvers it slowly so that she is now facing him, her back to the pond. "I didn't say you had to stay. Just that Zero couldn't be seen."

It's the nuance in her tone that gives her away. He takes far too many breaths before coming up with a reply, and even then, he winds up only with the same (_stupid, dangerous_) question he's been repeating in one form or another since this all began. "For how long?"

"Until people have had time to calm down. The EU is trying to sort things out within these first few days, so it will take time."

Suzaku shuts his eyes. "How. Long."

She looks up at him and offers an uncertain smile. "A week."

No, he decides, _this_ is what betrayal feels like: two words that make him feel as though he had the wind knocked out of him, C.C.'s toneless drawl and Jeremiah's polite smile, now Nunnally and the realization that _this was all planned, this was all staged_ and he played the part of the fool to perfection. "You...you knew?" he breathes, somehow. He manages.

"I'm sorry, Suzaku." And when she says this she really does look like it, her sorrowful gaze nothing if not sincere. If not regretful. "He told me not to tell you. He thought – "

"And you followed him." His eyes burn, and there's a tightness in his throat that he cannot will away. He wants to add to that, ask how long she's known, but at this point he finds he'd sooner drown himself than say those words _again_. "You followed him and just led me along to be blindsided. Who else knew? Lord Jeremiah? Prince Schneizel? _Lloyd_?"

"Suzaku," she cuts in as soon as she can. "Take off your mask."

"_What?_"

"If you're going to yell at me," she says quietly, speaking to her hands. She has them folded across her lap in a way that reminds him of Euphy, once more. "Then I want to hear _you_. So, please..."

But her voice calms him the same way Lelouch's had, those too-few, too-short days before Requiem. He acquiesces, placing the mask atop the railing (if only because: it's become rather difficult to breathe), but he doesn't speak. He finds he can't seem to string together an apology to save his life; what more an actual tirade?

"It wasn't that I wanted to deceive you," she says, and her voice is not much more than a whisper. "But he said it was for the best and I...I trusted him. Because he always knew best, and..." When he finally meets her stare – because he can't _not_, not even out of spite – her eyes are pleading. "I'm sorry. I am. But you would have done the same, right?"

He truly, _honestly_ doesn't know the answer to that anymore.

"Why does he want to see me?" At the end of the day, a part of him is beginning to admit that perhaps _this_ is what it's about. "Why did he never say anything, until – ?"

"Neither of those," Nunnally cuts in gently, "is a question that I can answer."

She takes his hand, hesitant, and he kneels at her feet when she pulls, suddenly feeling exhausted. He imagines this is how Nunnally must have felt in the minutes after Requiem, but he can't quite put a name to the emotion. "Come with me," he murmurs, clinging to her hand; his is gloved, but hers is so much warmer. "If I go...that is...wouldn't you want to see him too?"

"More than anything else in the world," she answers softly. "But I can't. For the very same reasons Zero has to disappear for awhile, I have to stay behind. He knows that. And you know that."

There are many ways he can answer that, but the one he ends up choosing involves a pitiful laugh and a crooked smile. "Those are his words, aren't they?"

Nunnally replies to that by returning the smile, though hers is wide and warm and immediately softens her eyes. With her other hand, she fixes some of his sweat-mussed hair before bringing her fingers down to his cheek, where she traces the imprint of cloth. It takes all of his strength not to lean into the touch. "Please go to him, Suzaku," she says, and it's the furthest thing from an order but carries twice as much weight. "If not for him, or for yourself, then, at least..."

He stops waiting for her to finish when her fingers begin to tremble. Bowing his head, he brings up her hand and presses his lips against the back. Acceptance – and also, a promise. He releases her hand and something wavers in her face, but her eyes are dry when he reaches for the mask.

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* * *

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What can he say to Lelouch?

He imagines seven years ago, he would have thought of plenty of things. Questions and grievances and promises and memories and so much more. Now, however, there is only this lingering emptiness clouding his mind, as though he _still_ isn't entirely sure this recent series of events has been real at all.

(It wouldn't be the first time.)

He imagines seven years ago, as well, he would start by storming into the room, throwing Lelouch up against the wall, and demanding an explanation. Perhaps eight years ago, he would have simply smiled and counted this fortune as a blessing. Now he isn't sure, and he wonders why it is that he's lived through both extremes and can't seem to interpolate in between. Is it because the answer is 'nothing'? But that's an absurd thought.

(That, as well, wouldn't be the first time.)

Regardless, he waits until the very last hour before taking Schneizel aside. There, in a dimly-lit corner of an empty hallway, he wears the mask and doesn't even wait for the familiar red rings to appear around the prince's irises.

"You will guard her with your life," he orders, thrusting the revolver handle-first into the space between them. "Do you understand? If, when I return, I find that she's been hurt in _any_ way..." The mere thought of it almost makes him want to back out entirely, especially with the world in its current state. He sighs. "You know how it is," he says instead. "Don't let anything happen to her."

"Of course, Lord Zero."

Schneizel's footfalls are soundless against the carpet. Suzaku watches him pocket the revolver with such nonchalance that it's almost enviable.

He gives another to Jeremiah that night, who salutes with a smile that needs no words.

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* * *

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_One: this is the number of points on the suit (also: the number of points on a sword, of edges that cut, that matter), and the number tied to the spades. _

_One: to many, it evokes loneliness, solitude. A man facing the world alone. But also: unity, wholeness, independence. A man facing the world alone, again, but with all of his spirit and none of his despair. _

One: the number of vials of Refrain Suzaku packs carefully into the box, stuffing it into the bottom of his duffel bag. He doesn't take it everyday, no (he hasn't quite degenerated to that point yet, although he suspects he's close), but if he is going to be gone for a week then he needs this much.

One: the number of times he sees Nunnally again before leaving. He asks her if there's anything she wants, any message to pass along to Lelouch. At least this, he thinks, he can lead with, if he can think of nothing else to say. But she tells him there's nothing she can say that Lelouch doesn't already know.

One: the number of steps he's taken outside Nunnally's room before C.C. is suddenly standing before him.

"Tch." She's looking at the clock in the hallway, and scowls. "Just after midnight. He knows you a little _too_ well."

Suzaku blinks at her from behind his oversized sunglasses, and it takes awhile for that to sink in. "Sorry to disappoint," he says dryly.

"You were always predictable. It's my fault for humoring him." C.C. kicks idly at the carpet underfoot. "Now I owe him a new chessboard, I suppose."

"You...you were _betting_ on this?"

"Against this," she corrects. "To be fair, I thought you would break sooner." She smiles at him cattily before he can think of a retort. "Come now, let's not keep him waiting. It's a very long flight, after all."

.

[ _end of act I_ ]

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More notes: This fic has had many names. It used to be called '_Fold_', but also things like 'that poker fic' or 'the _other_ Refrainzaku.' Some of my own christenings are 'the mind-f*ck fic' and the 'death-fourshot-of-deathly-death-death.' As of recently, by some strange consensus over LJ, this fic has been officially declared a _cat_ – yes, a black one, a kitten. She's very friendly to everyone else, but hisses and bites and claws the heck out of me.

…All of these representations, one way or another, are telling.

So this _will_ be a fourshot, that much at least is a given. Suzalulu, yes, and the rating might or might not go up – that remains to be seen. Anyway, I _really_ want this finished before March, and I'll break out every trick in the book to accomplish that. The fact that I've frozen '3-3-3' for this fic probably already says a lot, though. Gah. (Though I will not freeze longfic; I _am_ working on that, I swear.)

One down, three to go, one down, three to go *chants*.

Thanks for reading! Comments would be loved.


	2. ii

Disclaimer: _Code Geass_ – with its characters, settings, and all other borrowed elements here – is the sole property of its creators. I own nothing, though you know – I would if I could.

(for overall warnings, see act I)

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_full house_

**act ii **

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Suzaku thinks that the day he first met Gino Weinberg, _truly_, was neither during his introduction to the rest of the Knights of the Round, nor his official knighting ceremony the day after. Both times, his mind was too clouded with dead princesses and masked terrorists, in one form and another, so he never really registered the welcoming hugs and boisterous laughter. Rather, it was on his first mission: as a test, he supposes now, he was deployed to some godforsaken part of the E.U. barely a day after his promotion, and the Knight of Three was there as well.

They ended up overstaying two days. Among the things they did to pass the time was visit the circus, and a particularly colorful tent that smelled of incense and jasmine (or Gino dragged him; he can't remember, now.)

The gypsy woman drew the Jack of Diamonds and placed it atop the felt-covered table: someone who had recently touched his life, she began. "Someone young at heart," she croaked then, "with fair skin and light hair." And Gino smiled and beamed and pointed to himself in a whimsical fashion, and that is how Suzaku chooses to remember how they 'met'.

It was Gino who taught him to fly, regardless. And so the controls are familiar, even if the plane itself is not - an old cargo jet that predates even the Gareths, it sports too many replacement parts and a lag in one of the engines; he's surprised it even got C.C. to Pendragon at all. But the basic operation is the same, similar enough at least to the Tristan.

Suzaku stares at the overlapping dots on the screen and blinks, twice. He's tired, and he has no idea how long they've been airborne. Hours, maybe. "Where do I land?" There is no reply, and down below is a seemingly endless plain of green. He tries again. "C.C."

Finally she emerges from the cargo hold, rubbing at her eyes and stifling a yawn. "Question," she drawls. "What's in the box?"

"_What_ box?" He glances up to see her hugging the duffel bag to her chest – she must have used it as a makeshift pillow, he realizes, and it dawns on him to what exactly she is referring. "Nothing," he answers quickly, tearing his eyes away. "Tell me where to land. I'm wasting fuel."

"Hmmm." He feels C.C.'s eyes on him for a long, uncomfortable moment, before she heaves a sigh. Dropping the bag unceremoniously onto the floor, she walks over and prods him away from the pilot's seat. "Move."

They head due north until he sees mountains, and only then do they begin to lose altitude. By the time he can resolve the trees, the sheep grazing contentedly while ignoring the giant metal beast landing not a hundred feet away, he sees the house.

There isn't much to say about it, really. Most of what is visible from the outside is made of wood, with corrugated metal supporting the roof. A low, simple wooden fence scales the perimeter of a small garden plot off to the side, its construction identical to the one enclosing the sheep some ways away. On the other side, an old-fashioned clothesline stretches between two wooden posts, empty save for a single blanket fluttering in the breeze.

"Come on." Suzaku knows he's been on the ground long enough when C.C. just walks past him, having already shut off and disembarked from the plane herself. "No need to be polite. _Boya_."

It's a short walk from the fence to the front door, and his eyes flit from one thing to another, trying to take in everything. The lack of a mailbox at the entrance. A pile of firewood on the porch. Tomatoes and their vines climbing along trellises, cucumbers and basil and other things he can't identify -

"We're here." C.C. pushes open the door without preamble, sauntering right inside. She pulls the handkerchief off her head and slips out of her jacket, leaving both items on a nearby couch. He notices, two seconds too late and while fumbling with his boots, the way she projected her voice, and how it wasn't him she was speaking to at all.

And - "Welcome back." There: a voice he hasn't heard outside of dreams and hallucinations for seven years, and the first time he _does_, it comes muffled from another room.

Suzaku doesn't know what to do for a very long time.

He thinks perhaps he doesn't have an excuse. It's not as if he didn't see this coming since yesterday, and he had - God knows how many hours staring alternately between sky and panel and ocean, to plan this out in his head. They've been apart for seven years before: all that time, between _'Goodbye'_ on a dusty roadside and _'Lelouch?'_ in an abandoned Shinjuku subway tunnel. It was so easy, then - to walk up and join Lelouch on the railing overlooking the courtyard, as though it hadn't been seven years since he'd seen someone pull on his collar and understood exactly what that meant. It was _easy_, so it should be just as easy now.

But it's not, and so he ends up following C.C. upstairs instead.

The stairs creak with every step, and Suzaku finds himself using the wooden railing as a crutch. Once, C.C. glances back at him. But she doesn't pause in her ascent, and he can't read the twist of her lips and the tightness between her brows.

He supposes he gets it, though, when they come upon a single room and she just shuts the door in his face.

"Stop tailing me. Let's not pretend _I'm_ the reason you're here."

What really doesn't help is the fact that this all feels so surreal. Everything, from the giant window flooding the hallway with sunlight from the other end, the paintings of landscapes without frames hanging on the wall, the broom propped up near the top of the stairs – _everything_. After seven years, as well, of seeing almost everything in shades of dark green, the colors overwhelm him a bit. It disturbs him to think this isn't unlike some of the better trips he's had.

Suzaku stares at his hands: five, ten fingers. He looks for a clock and finds a simple one, also hanging on the wall; the second hand moves in time with the cadence in his head, and it doesn't do anything awful like go backwards or stop (and, it's almost 3 in the afternoon? Already?)

He's just about to try doing the math in his head, to figure out some idea of where they are (because C.C. wouldn't tell him) when the door is yanked open once more. He jumps.

"Oh for gods' sakes." She rolls her eyes at him and blows out a sigh. "Where is he?"

"Downstairs," is all Suzaku can think of to say. He takes in her knee-length dress in plaid, her long hair in pigtails with black ribbons woven through, another scarf on her head and the straps of a tote bag laced through her arm. "You're leaving?"

"Quite. Three's a crowd, haven't you heard?" A wry smile. "Don't look like that. I'll be back to pick you up at the end of the week. Try to be good until then, hmmm?"

He isn't sure why the first thing that makes it through the haze is panic. _'Don't go,'_ and _'Don't take the plane'_ all seem like reasonable requests to the part of him that wants to keep an escape route (why?) but all he ends up saying is, "Where are you going?"

"I don't know," she shrugs. "That's half the fun." And then she sighs again, taking him by the arm and pulling him into the room. "Gods, you can be so _obtuse_ sometimes."

"But I - " He lets her drag him across, looking around. There is one bed by the window, perfectly made and with nary a crease on the white sheets. There are articles of clothing folded on a nearby chair, and the closet door is open; almost immediately, he recognizes _those shoes, this turtleneck, that red jacket_. "Uh."

"There's no guest room," she explains. "Not that there's been a need for one, mind you. You're an exception. But you always have been, no?" She's lost him at this point, prodding at his trenchcoat and eyeing his jeans. "Change. You'll suffocate in those."

Suzaku is still standing in the same spot long after she's left the room, the door shutting behind her something of an omen with the silence it leaves behind. Through the floor, he can hear them speaking shortly downstairs. But he can't make out what they're saying, only C.C.'s drawl and the lower register that isn't hers.

He finally gives up and sits on the very edge of the bed, almost afraid to disturb anything. He runs a hand through his hair and squeezes his eyes shut until it begins to hurt, before repeating it all over again. The sticky heat is uncomfortable now, and it's already seeped into him deep like a fever that refuses to break. He remembers it's almost winter in Pendragon; clearly this isn't it.

It's probably several more minutes, or even longer, before he reaches for the duffel bag and decides to take C.C.'s advice to heart. He probably won't be sleeping here (he doesn't want to think about _that_, not yet) but perhaps it won't hurt to unpack. And perhaps this mindless chore will finally give him enough incentive to think of something to say.

Or perhaps it isn't that he has nothing to say; perhaps he has entirely too much, which is in itself an entirely different problem.

But as he digs past the layers of clothes and finds _nothing_ at the bottom of the bag, he realizes he's been handed yet another problem, one that is far, far worse.

It doesn't take long for him to realize what happened. It takes even less time to shoot to his feet, bursting through the door and down the stairs and out of the house, until he is standing at the threshold with his heart racing and his eyes wild. "_C.C.!_"

But he waited too long; C.C. is gone, and so is the jet, along with the box of Refrain.

"Suzaku." He feels a presence at his side, and then a hand on his shoulder. And despite the tumult, a treacherous part of him finds comfort in the gesture. "What's wrong?"

It's their first contact after seven years. And Suzaku isn't even looking at him. He needs that vial. _Everything's_ wrong. But he only swallows back the fear and says, "Nothing."

.

* * *

.

Lunch is a hopelessly awkward affair.

Although, given the time, he isn't sure if it's late enough for the meal to deserve another name. The table is large, seemingly out of place in the otherwise cozy dining room, but there are only two chairs. They sit on opposite sides, and this puts some distance between them. Suzaku isn't sure, either, that it's not deliberate.

They eat slowly, a hearty tomato stew poured over some kind of grain. He's almost halfway done before he finally says something, the first words to break the silence since they re-entered the house. "You were always good at this."

Lelouch raises an eyebrow. Unlike Suzaku, he never seemed uncomfortable with the silence at all, and now that it's gone he doesn't seem surprised either. "This?" he parrots.

"This." Suzaku swallows and gestures vaguely at the spread on the table. "You know, when I used to come over. I liked it when Miss Sayoko cooked, but. I liked it better when you did."

Broken, choppy, and disjointed – just like his thoughts, actually, so he isn't surprised at how that came out. Lelouch smiles and reaches for a roll from the basket between them. "Well, some things are a constant. We usually take comfort in them."

"Yeah." Suzaku looks at him. He wants to say that Lelouch hasn't changed. The same jet-black hair, falling to just above his shoulders. The same sharp, violet eyes. The same pale skin and delicate-looking frame – he doesn't look a day over eighteen. Of course he doesn't. "Yeah," he says again instead, not wanting to look stupider than he already does.

Lelouch hums thoughtfully, swirling the water in his glass. "Tired?"

"Always," Suzaku finds himself saying, even before he fully absorbs the question. He supposes it's too late to amend that. "Why?"

"C.C. made you pilot, didn't she." It isn't a question, but it isn't an answer either. Lelouch chuckles, pouring more water for them both. "You look horribly jet-lagged."

"Do I?"

He nods. "That, and you've been nodding off."

Suzaku blinks at that, startled out of...something. Lelouch's plate is empty now, which it definitely wasn't the last time he looked. Some of the bread has vanished, and when he looks up at the clock - his cheeks burn. "I'm sorry."

"No, it's alright." Lelouch is still wearing that smile when he stands up and begins to clear the table. "Go on. That _was_ a long flight, after all. We'll talk more when you can manage it."

"But..." He rises to his feet as well, but Lelouch is so efficient at this that by the time he does, there's little else that needs to be done. "I'm sorry," he says again. Stupidly. "Where – ?"

"Upstairs." He's about to protest, but he doesn't get the chance. "Change out of those," he's told for the second time that day. "You'll get heatstroke."

Suzaku isn't sure how he manages to find his way back into the bedroom, just that he stumbles into it and somehow squirms his way into something a bit more comfortable, a bit less baked by the sun (the sleeves are just as long, though, because.) He hesitates before climbing onto the mattress, expecting the squeak of bedsprings but left wanting. However he expected this week to begin, this isn't it. (But perhaps it's for the best?)

He drifts off to sleep even with the sun in his face, and the heat doesn't let up for many hours still. Once, he thinks he hears the door opening, but there are no footsteps that follow. Another time, he feels something cold and wet pressed against his forehead, and he tries to open his eyes. But that takes too much effort.

"Lelouch." Somewhere in-between, before the dreams and the lingering effects of his last shot of Refrain kick in, he hears that. He doesn't recall saying it, or wanting to. "Lelouch."

But he thinks he hears this as well: "It's alright. I'm here."

.

* * *

.

(That night, he tries to be gentle. He's done this before, but Lelouch hasn't, and Suzaku doesn't want to hurt him.

They stop halfway. "Turn around," Suzaku coaxes. He braces his elbows against the mattress and brushes the hair out of Lelouch's eyes. "I want to see you. I want..."

Suzaku realizes it's a dream when he notices they're in Lelouch's bedroom – at _Ashford_, but Lelouch himself is dressed in all the regalia of Britannia's Demon Emperor. How odd. He wonders, briefly, if Nunnally can hear them two doors down, but then he remembers that it doesn't matter. It's a dream. This is fine.)

.

* * *

.

It's almost noon when Suzaku awakens, vestiges of a dream (a memory – distorted though it is) slipping from the darkest corners of his mind. They give way to a strange ceiling, an unfamiliar view outside an open window.

He tries to kick off the sheets, but they're already bunched up at his feet. He rolls over, finding the other side of the bed so much cooler and just lying there, numb, until it saps him of warmth but still leaves him feeling flushed.

And then he shifts to a sitting position and only now, _really_ wakes up.

It's the terrible creak from the staircase outside that brings him to the door. He's barely stepped out of the bedroom when Lelouch reaches the top of the stairs, an armful of clean laundry in tow.

"Good morning." Lelouch says this with a lazy smile, but his lips quirk as he looks at the hall clock. "Barely, I should say."

He doesn't return the greeting. "Lelouch," he begins instead. But he stalls at that word, although there are a million ways he could have _not_.

"Excuse me." Lelouch squeezes past him and into the bedroom, depositing his cargo onto the bed. "It's a bit late for breakfast, but if you're hungry there's bread and leftovers in the kitchen."

He's not. "How long will C.C. be gone?"

"A week." Lelouch looks at him, and he is still wearing that strange smile. "Missing her already? I wonder if I should be insulted."

He tries to brush past, but Suzaku grabs his arm. "Lelouch."

It seems that's the only word he remembers. But it's enough, as Lelouch actually pauses mid-stride. When he finally turns around, that warm smile has been replaced by a smirk, and yet he thinks this is better. "_Finally_ awake now, I see," he chuckles.

Suzaku frowns. "What?"

Lelouch merely shakes his head, claiming back his arm with a gentle tug. But he stays put. "You've always been consistent, Suzaku – not in all things, but at least in some that matter. And there's always been a lag between...well. To put it simply, it's nice to see that seven years down, some things haven't changed."

He has no idea what that is supposed to mean (or maybe he does, and he doesn't want to believe it?) There is something constricting his chest, and although he knows it's all in his head, that doesn't really help. "Lelouch," (may as well), "why am I here?"

"Because the world is currently on a precipice." Lelouch sighs and regards him through half-lidded eyes, and...he actually looks _bored_. "Zero may be remembered for slaying the Demon Emperor, but he is also remembered for other things, some of which aren't as noble, and all of the means even less so." He stuffs his hands into his pockets. "That's what Nunnally said, yes?"

Suzaku clenches his jaw. _Control_. Zero is a symbol, and symbols don't need emotions, and especially here, now - they won't change anything. They can't solve anything. "It's what you told her."

"Yes, of course. But a minor detail." A beat. Another. Lelouch glances away before looking back, and he raises an eyebrow. "What's this? You look almost resentful."

He's not good at this game - he never was. And even if he were, Lelouch will always be better, but if for nothing else Suzaku decides to play anyway. "You don't think I have a reason to be?"

"What a question." Lelouch lets out a laugh. "It doesn't matter what _I_ think, Suzaku. But, go on. I was hoping we wouldn't have this conversation, but the sooner we get it out of the way, the better."

Suzaku actually recoils at that. He feels as though he'd been stung. "Who else knows?" No, better question: "Who else _knew_?"

Lelouch sighs again, louder this time, heavier. He's no longer smirking. "What good would that information do?"

"It's better than nothing," he grinds out.

"What isn't?" Lelouch scoffs, and turns to leave. But Suzaku steps forward (the floorboards creak in protest underneath) and snags his wrist, stopping him again. "Look, what does it even matter anymore? Yes, I'm alive; you heard it from C.C. and Nunnally and now you're hearing it from me. As if you need any more evidence. Isn't this enough?" he snaps.

That's what finally does it. Suzaku isn't sure at what point he grabs the front of Lelouch's shirt with his other hand, or how he ends up pinning the other man up against the wooden railing overlooking the living room, instead of the wall. There is a louder creak this time, awful and telling, and he doesn't know where it comes from but the wood gives slightly. He barely even registers any of it.

"_Seven years!_ " His voice comes out hoarse, but he's surprised it doesn't break. And, at how stubbornly his eyes remain dry. "You goddamn bastard! You've been alive seven years and I got _nothing_!" Seven years of second-guessing himself every night, knowing he could never be as magnificent a symbol as Lelouch's Zero ever was. Seven years of never thinking twice about the Empress' late-night phone calls, or her mail, or whatever they've been using to keep in touch – he still doesn't know, and it hurts how little he does. Seven years of only seeing Lelouch at the price of injecting poison, but he'd paid it gladly when all this time... "_Why?_"

"Because." Lelouch is nowhere near as angry as he is; he isn't sure that's even possible. But there is a steely edge to his voice, strained though it is. He still has his hands in his pockets. "I told you what you had to give up. Zero needed to be a symbol for the people, someone to turn to after I died. Tell me, Suzaku, if I'd sent for you that very day, what's the first thing you would have done?"

Another creak, and an awful groan from the wood, but Suzaku doesn't let him go just yet. "That justifies nothing – "

"I know. God _damn_ it, Suzaku..." Lelouch finally brings a hand up, out of his pocket. Suzaku anticipates the strike, steels himself for it – and instead feels fingers trailing up his cheek, Lelouch's hand cupping the side of his face. "But, remember: what the original plan was, what _that_ entailed. At least, for that..."

It's strange; there's a hint of a smile on his face, and something like fondness shining in his eyes – it seeps through other things, like remorse and resignation and Suzaku doesn't know how to name everything else anymore.

"I'm not sorry. But for everything else, _difficult_ as you make it...I do apologize."

The startlingly gentle touch brings back too many things, too many things he'd tried to bury and forget during the day, and Suzaku pushes him away on instinct. Or perhaps it's Lelouch who pushes back, at the same time an ear-splitting crack rips through the silence of the hallway and the old, tired wood of the railing finally gives way. Suzaku regrets it immediately and stumbles back, horrified. But he doesn't look down, doesn't stop until his back hits the wall and one of the paintings behind him. He slides down, locks his arms around his knees, and waits.

Somehow, when the shock ebbs away and the words take root in his mind, he finally finds the tears.

.

* * *

.

_The King of Diamonds was Julius Caesar. Known throughout his life for being an extraordinary orator, there were some who went to claim he descended from Venus herself. Given his much-extolled victories, be it on the battlefield or in the political sphere, perhaps it isn't quite so farfetched to think he at least had the heavens on his side._

_('Veni, vidi, vici' - 'I came, I saw, I conquered' - could not have been spoken so easily, otherwise.)_

_He was named dictator perpetuus. He sat in a gilded chair and wore a laurel wreath, a toga of purple adorned with gold: 'to the unconquerable god,' among other praises, was engraved in his honor._

_And yet, to this day Caesar is remembered as much for five decades of glory as he is for a single bitter day in March, sixty conspirators and twenty-three stab wounds from daggers wielded by men he trusted. To trust is to gamble, always, be it over minutes or lifetimes - this he might have learned, but he had no-one to save him that day, whether he deserved it or not._

.

* * *

.

Suzaku still has his head buried in his arms when Lelouch returns, sitting on the floor beside him.

"So. Where were we?"

He doesn't reply, doesn't even move. Lelouch heaves a sigh and leans back, letting his head rest against the wall.

After several long seconds, he speaks again: "Nunnally, and Lord Jeremiah. And of course, C.C. That's everyone."

Finally, Suzaku looks up. His eyes are red but they're no longer wet, and for a moment he looks as though he's surprised that Lelouch is alive, with not even a scratch to show for the fall. Understanding follows soon enough, though - which is fortunate, because Lelouch really isn't in the mood to talk about the Code and all it implies. Not now. There will be time for that later. "Really?"

Lelouch nods. "I told Nunnally three years ago. It wasn't an easy secret to keep, on her part. I hope you appreciate that?"

"And Lord Jeremiah?" Suzaku presses.

"Ah. Longer." Lelouch rolls his head to the right and smiles. "Someone had to dispose of the Demon Emperor's body, after all."

Suzaku doesn't laugh at that. He shifts his gaze away, back to the floor in front of them, littered with splinters and pieces of broken wood. He ducks his head down, hiding all of his face below his eyes. "I should hate you," he whispers.

"You should," Lelouch agrees. "But you're here, aren't you? I sent for _you_. Zero and politics notwithstanding..." Lelouch mulls over the question he wants to ask; it's not so much voicing the query he's afraid of, as it is the answer: "That counts for something, right?"

Later, Lelouch brings in some of the firewood from outside and shows Suzaku where he can get more. The tools in the dusty box by the fireplace are old and mostly caked with rust, but they do the job. Because words are the least of solutions, and so as Suzaku repairs the railing, Lelouch lets him repair the bonds between them, if only as much as this (stolen) time will allow.

.

* * *

.

That night, by his insistence, Suzaku sleeps on the sofa downstairs. The dreams are a bit worse, now.

This is what he knows about Refrain: precious little. Adapting is a two-way process; he learned that the hard way, from the very first time he tried it. It takes time for the mind (and the body, in a way) to adjust to this strange new agent, to realize it isn't something to be rejected. It takes time for the mind to sort through its vault of memories - some conscious, some not – and decide which ones are pleasant, which ones put it at ease. The drug helps, and it keeps them vivid. And somewhere in there, a dependence grows.

He's always taken it at night, simply because Zero can't afford to hallucinate during the day. There's little difference between trips and dreams now, and while he knows it's _wrong_, he appreciates that it's staved off the nightmares.

Now that it's gone, though, the brain finds itself trying to compensate. It takes a while to catch on. The illusions are there, but they're warped and imperfect, and the line between 'good' and 'bad' is blurred: a numbers game, is all it boils down to in the end. If the mind must choose to relive something at random, how good the outcome is depends on how many good memories there are, compared to _other_ ones.

This is a numbers game Suzaku cannot win. (So it makes sense that he ends up dreaming of Lelouch, warm hands and warmer lips in the cockpit of the Lancelot, his right eye red and his left eye purple. He leans forward and whispers something into Suzaku's ear: _"There's no eject mechanism here, Lord Kururugi_," and Suzaku is so startled that his arm jerks, and hits a button that fires a FLEIJA right over a house and a herd of sheep in the middle of a grassy field.)

Suzaku awakens with a jolt. He stays awake until dawn.

.

* * *

.

They spend most of the afternoon on the third day watching sheep, which he supposes is a cruel joke.

But the breeze is comforting, and the grass is soft underneath. They sit with their backs propped against a tree, half-eaten sandwiches and travel mugs containing juice littered between them. Suzaku stares at the scores of fluffy, bleating animals and tries not to associate them with last night.

After a while, he doesn't have to.

"You know, I never expected you could live like this."

"Like this," Lelouch echoes, a smirk in his voice. "You keep using phrases like that as though your specific meaning is perfectly clear."

"Fine," Suzaku concedes. "I mean, you know..." He struggles for words, gesturing at the vast expanse of green around them. "This. Living off the land, away from civilization."

Lelouch shrugs. "It was hard at first. But seven years is plenty of time to learn."

"I guess." Suzaku scoots down and leans back until he is lying on the grass. It's late enough that he doesn't get the sun in his eyes, and the sky is a brilliant blue that would have made it worth it anyway. "Did you know, by the way?" he finds himself asking. "That you'd come back to life?"

He spends the time watching clouds drift by as Lelouch formulates a reply.

"We weren't a hundred per cent sure," he finally says. "C.C. mentioned there was a large chance but..." He sits up, and Suzaku sees him scowl. "Well, it didn't help matters any that she waited until the very last minute to tell me."

"That sounds like her."

"Yes. Regardless, I decided it was irrelevant. Zero Requiem was still the top priority. That didn't change."

"Huh." He supposes there are other questions he can ask at this point: _'How did you sneak out of Pendragon?'_ or _'How long did it take to recover from that?'_, all trivial things fuelled by curiosity and little else. But he doesn't miss the expression on Lelouch's face, or the tense hunch of his shoulders. Another time, he supposes, if at all. "It's so peaceful here."

"I know. It's a good place to retreat from the chaos of the world."

The breeze seems to cease at that, and silence hangs over them like a shroud.

Suzaku supposes he shouldn't be surprised, though. But he asks anyway. "You know about that?"

"I've been speaking with Nunnally, remember?" Lelouch sighs, and then leans back onto the tree, suddenly seeming exhausted. He picks up the remainder of his sandwich, but he doesn't do anything else with it. "How is she?"

"Didn't you just say you've been talking with her?"

"Well, _yes_, but..." Lelouch rolls his eyes, and Suzaku lets out a little laugh then, prompting a muttered, "Idiot."

"Hmmm." He closes his eyes, welcomes the return of the breeze. "She's very good at what she does," he says finally. "She wants to make things right, and people look up to her. They trust her. And..." He thinks of what else to say. Something lighter. Something that will steer their conversation _away_ from Zero Requiem, which is where it still seems to be headed. Because he isn't sure he can deal with that right now, and he suspects the same can be said for Lelouch. One step at a time. "She's growing out her hair again. It's almost to the middle of her back, now."

"She cut her hair?"

"Yeah, a year ago." Suzaku reaches a hand up to his shoulder, and opens his eyes. "Up to here. You didn't know?"

Lelouch shakes his head, and the look on his face is just so priceless that Suzaku can't help but laugh.

"It's so peaceful here," he says again. He shifts and squints at the upside-down view he gets of Lelouch's face. "Don't you ever get bored?"

"Often," the other man admits. "Although there are ways to deal with that. You learn to cope."

Suzaku knits his eyebrows. "How?"

Lelouch shrugs...and then a smile takes over his face, slowly, and Suzaku isn't sure whether he likes the look of that. "Chess?"

.

* * *

.

Their fifth game (and his fifth impending loss, Suzaku muses) is disrupted when it begins to rain in torrents. "Shit."

Lelouch is on his feet in an instant, the expletive he just uttered a mere afterthought as he rushes to the kitchen. Confused, Suzaku is at his heels within seconds. "What? What is it?"

"I didn't think it was going to rain this hard today. I thought..." Lelouch is muttering to himself as he pulls open the cupboard underneath the sink, withdrawing several old pots and various large containers. He takes six of them in all, dumps half into Suzaku's arms and rushes back out.

"L-Lelouch?"

He follows Lelouch to the living room, only to find the ceiling already dripping in several places. He catches on and sets to work, surprised to find the spots already marked with tape on the floor. "How long has this been a problem?" he asks, sliding a pot underneath a leak. The hollow _drip-drip-drip_ turns into a more melodic spatter as the water hits metal.

"Long enough." Lelouch nudges Suzaku's boots out of the way in order to align a basin under the trickle from the ceiling. "It's obviously an issue with the roof, but I don't have the necessary tools to check."

Suzaku moves the last pot in place and looks up. "Is this place falling apart?"

Lelouch shakes his head. "It's old, but I suspect it isn't a structural problem. Otherwise the leaks would have gotten worse over time." He shrugs. "It doesn't matter. The rain should stop eventually." But the rain doesn't stop for the rest of the evening, and twice they have to empty the makeshift rain-catchers.

What proves to be a bigger problem, though, is the fact that one of them sits right atop the sofa.

"Um..."

"Suzaku, this is ridiculous." Lelouch rolls his eyes and taps his feet impatiently against the floor. "The bed is big enough for us both, and it's not like we haven't – "

"I know," he cuts in, all too quickly. He doesn't want Lelouch to finish that sentence, and besides it's the furthest thing from his mind. "I know, but I..." How is he going to explain this? Explain that he's never gone without Refrain this long since memory will allow, and how he isn't sure if last night was the worst of it, or if it gets even worse from here on? How he's managed to have some semblance of control over himself when under the influence, but now the circumstances have changed and he isn't sure how much of that he has left?

He can't, which is why Lelouch drags him upstairs and he finds himself lying atop the sheets, inches away. It's pitch-black outside, and for a long time they just lie there, listening to the rain and the occasional rumble of thunder, staring at a blank ceiling or the space where it would be.

They aren't quite touching, anywhere.

"It's funny," he whispers.

Lelouch groans at this. "_Again_. Suzaku, what is 'it'?"

"Sorry," he laughs. "I mean, this. You and me. I thought..." He sighs, and licks his lips. "I guess it's silly, but a part of me thought...that even after all this time, we could just...I don't know. Maybe, pick up where we left off?"

"Ah." Lelouch moves his head a little, and amusement colors his voice. "You and I didn't exactly _leave off_ in the most pleasant of places though, right?"

Images of the Royal Parade, of bound Black Knights, of Jeremiah and Nunnally and Schneizel and finally Lelouch, Lelouch on top of that float with his regal and sad smile that lasted for all of one second flash in his mind, and they stay with him as he reluctantly drifts off.

.

* * *

.

(((He walks among a field of corpses, clutching at nothing with his hands.

"Keep walking, Suzaku." He hears the instruction from a voice several paces in front of him, but that voice is already low and deep, seven years older than what it should be.

"That's right. We're just passing through a garbage dump, that's all." Seventeen-year-old Lelouch finally turns to face him, but it's a dying, bloody Euphemia he cradles in his arms. "That's why – we have to keep walking.)

Suzaku snaps out of his trance, gasping. His gaze falls onto the instrument panel in front of him; he has his fingers wrapped around the controls of the Ganymede, and he shudders to think that with a badly-timed jerk he could have dropped the Knightmare's arm, sending Euphemia hurtling to the ground.

"Everyone!" Her voice rises over the din of students and spectators and reporters, waiting with bated breath below. "There is a very important annoucement I wish to share with you all."

He looks around. The sunlight gleams off the Ganymede's paint, and sends flares off the lenses in the video cameras. There, in the distance, the ruined pizza dough sits atop a tree.

"I, Euphemia li Britannia of the Holy Britannian Empire...would like to ask all those who call themselves Japanese: please, kill yourselves!"

_What –_)

He jerks awake, trembling and drenched in sweat.

"Another nightmare, Suzaku?" Lelouch's hand is warm as he touches his shoulder.

"...Yeah." His eyes burn, and he lets Lelouch slide his hand over his arm, across his stomach, resting on his waist and trailing even lower. He's naked, he realizes. He looks at Lelouch and sees that they both are.

_Did they...?_

"What's wrong?" He hears the frown in Lelouch's voice as he tears himself away, padding across the floor. He tries to look at his hands, but he can't see them. He tries to look for a clock, then, but there isn't one in this room. "Suzaku!"

"I'm sorry." Suzaku feels his way to the door, and then gropes the wall beside it. "Let me just..."

He flips the light switch the moment his fingers find it.

Nothing happens.

"Suzaku." Lelouch is already approaching him as he tries, again and again, each failed attempt furthering the dread as it sinks into a pit in his stomach. "Don't you trust me?"

"You're not real," he whispers, shaking his head. He presses himself against the door. "You're not real."

"No?" Lelouch chuckles, a deep, throaty sound as he wraps his arms around Suzaku's neck and grinds against him. "Still not real?" he smirks, as Suzaku barely stifles a moan. "This is what you want, isn't it?" Lelouch kisses the shell of his ear, his fingers seeking greener pastures over his former knight's body. "This, this, this..."

"No..." He shuts his eyes, trying to resist. Desperate, he counts the fingers on his right hand by flicking them across his thumb: one, two...three. "No," he says, stronger this time as he pushes Lelouch away -

Only to open his eyes and find himself in an empty church, near the altar, with a white-haired madman cackling at him. "Father-killer! Father-killer! Father-killer!" he chants, clapping his hands in delight.

Suzaku snarls and lunges at him, sending them both to the floor. He wraps his hands around Mao's bandaged neck and throttles him, _anything_ to make him stop, but he keeps laughing, even as he begins to sputter and turn blue.

The laughter finally stops when he hears a _crack!_ But the clapping does not.)

.

* * *

.

"_...off!_"

A knee to the gut knocks the wind out of him, and Suzaku _finally_ wakes up. The pain sends him into a coughing fit, tears prickling in his eyes. Doubled-over on the bed, he barely sees Lelouch scrambling away, running across the floor, and locking himself in the bathroom.

.

* * *

.

_Four: this is the number of points on the suit (also: the number of sides to its shape, parallel though curved ever so slightly, preserving its symmetry), and the number tied to the diamonds._

_Four: this number is associated with Earth, the diamonds' element. To those who follow this school of thought, it represents solidity, strength, an utter sense of reality. It is the first number that can be divided into parts that are still whole; it denotes practicality, an ability to adapt and persevere even in the worst of circumstances. And yet to others, it recalls death: perhaps this means something (or: nothing at all)._

Four: the number of long, endless minutes Suzaku waits before Lelouch returns, a coil of rope in his hands and his lips a stern line. "I'm going to tie you down. Lest you hurt _yourself_. Can you stay lucid until then?" he asks tightly, to which Suzaku gives a weak nod and tries not to stare at the ugly purple bruises on his neck.

Four: the number of times Lelouch lashes him to the bed, one limb to each post. He thinks not of the pain, or of all this implies, but rather what Lelouch said: _'lucid'_ was the term he used, not 'awake' or even 'calm,' and the last, cruel thought Suzaku has to himself before the ordeal begins again is, 'He knows; _he knows_.'

Four: the number of times Lelouch speaks again that night, as Suzaku thrashes and strains against the bindings, crying out in his sleep.

"Shhh." That's all he can think of to say the first three times, perched on the edge of the bed. More than once he tries to count the hours until sunrise, but he can't focus enough. He rubs at his neck as the room is filled with '_'Tousan_,' and '_Euphy_.' He covers Suzaku's eyes with his other hand. "Shhh."

And: "It's alright," he whispers when, just when the sky begins to lighten, Suzaku calls his name. He ducks under the ropes, more than well-aware of the danger, and lies next to him, holding him close.

He thinks he understands, now. And if what he thinks is correct, then he will give Suzaku _hell_ for this in the morning. But for now – "It's alright. I'm here."

.

[ _end of act II_ ]

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Thanks for reading! Reviews are always welcome. (Two down, two to go…)


	3. iii

Disclaimer: _Code Geass_ – with its characters, settings, and all other borrowed elements here – is the sole property of its creators. I own nothing, though you know – I would if I could.

(for overall warnings, see act I)

* * *

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_full house_

**act iii **

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**

The thrill of gambling aside, Lelouch often thought that if only Ashford Academy had a halfway-decent chess club, he would have spent more of his lunch periods there. But as it was, his peers preferred other ways to pass the time: simple checkers and silly charades or that dreadful, hours-long game that revolved around paper money and dice and streets on a foldable board.

There were others as well: card games, such as the one Milly taught them one rainy afternoon. "It's trickier than it looks," she explained then, dealing equal piles to both of them, and to Shirley and Rivalz who took up the other sides of the table. "You follow suit as much as you can, but you don't want to have the highest card down for that trick, in case you pick up penalty points."

"So basically it's an evasion-type game," Lelouch commented boredly, eyeing his hand.

"Oh, you take the magic out of everything!" Milly made a face at him, and Shirley giggled.

He understood, through observation (because Milly's explanations of these things were always less than helpful) what the basic strategy entailed: the high-card collected _all_ the penalty points in a trick, so he knew well enough to want to avoid 'winning' tricks with any hearts (hence the name?) or the Queen of Spades on the table. He even understood the more obscure rules – _"You can't lead with hearts unless hearts are 'broken'!"_ – and the merit of passing cards along before game-start.

What he _didn't_ understand was when Milly collected all possible penalties for each trick in one hand (thirteen hearts and the Queen of Spades) and _won_ that hand. Shirley laughed it off while Rivalz slapped a hand to his forehead with a goofy smile, and all Lelouch could manage was an indignant "_What_ in the world just happened?"

"'Shooting the moon'," she explained to him with an impish smile. "Winning is your reward for taking all the hits."

"But what if you miss even one?"

"Then that's too bad. Hey, I didn't make the rules! And besides..." Milly cupped her face in her hands and watched the cards fall with her eyes as Rivalz dealt. "The biggest rewards are always worth risking it all, right?"

He thinks he's heard that somewhere before.

And, as the sun filters through the window while he watches Suzaku stir and finally wake, he thinks he understands that, now.

"I'd done a lot of research on Refrain even before I was with the Black Knights." This is how he chooses to open the conversation, and he looks away pointedly when Suzaku's eyes find his face. "I wanted to know why its abuse was so rampant among the Japanese at that time. Once I learned of its effects, well - it became painfully obvious."

He spares a few seconds to wait for the denial. Or shock - he'll take anything, really, to justify lashing out right now. Control isn't too difficult at this point, not when he's had hours to simmer and wait and plan out all the possible branches this conversation can take. Still, it would be easier to do without it.

But he gets nothing, only an extension of the room's heavy, awful silence. Lelouch realizes that, (as _always_) Suzaku isn't going to make this any easier for both of them.

"As the Black Knights' influence expanded, that became one of our more immediate, clear-cut goals: to slowly cut off the supply of Refrain and one day take it off the streets completely. The campaign was a success, somewhat, although one does wonder whatever happened to all the Refrain that was confiscated. Was it destroyed, as per my orders, or did it simply change hands?" Lelouch forces a short laugh, though it doesn't come out as cruel as he would have liked. He crosses his legs and rests his elbow against the mattress. "Clearly it was the latter."

Suzaku makes a strained sound, and Lelouch finally looks at him. He almost wishes Suzaku were angry, but he sees none of that in the other man's eyes. What's there instead: acceptance, very little else. When he finally speaks, his voice is hoarse. "Lelouch..."

"May I ask, why Refrain?" He cuts in before Suzaku can finish. He uses the same loud, unforgiving tone as the day he mocked the Knight of Seven who was warning him about FLEIJA (because: _fool me once..._) and all the while he thinks it shouldn't be this hard. It shouldn't be this hard to say why he can't just ignore this. And why he feels like such a fool for not noticing until last night. "The very substance that did so much damage to Japan and her citizens. The drug Zero himself sought to eliminate. Need I expound on how the irony is telling?"

Suzaku stares at him, dimly. His eyes are on Lelouch's neck, as though searching for bruises that are no longer there. "I'm sorry," he manages.

And Lelouch bites back the impulse to say, _'For what?'_, mocking and derisive. "Why Refrain?" he asks again.

"I thought - " Suzaku bites down on his lip and shakes his head, turning away. The bindings barely let him; the skin around his wrists and ankles have been scraped raw. "Nothing," he says to the window.

"'Nothing'," Lelouch parrots. "'Nothing.' Clearly it was _something_, considering there are other ways to use substances as a crutch in dealing with whatever pathetic issues you're so convinced you can't surmount otherwise. Why Refrain?"

Suzaku shuts his eyes. "Lelouch - "

"Have you considered alcohol? Or even _any other drug_? Any of them will drive you to madness no faster, but at the very least you wouldn't be making a mockery of yourself by reverting to a poor parody of the very people you tried to save. Why Refrain?" When Suzaku still doesn't answer, he clenches his fists. "Do you realize what that drug is capable of? You may not feel it now, but when you do - "

"It doesn't matter. And it's not like your Geass will let me get to that point now, will it?" Green eyes flash - and all too soon, return to their dormant, deadened state. "I'll deal with it then."

But Lelouch isn't so quick to accept this (or anything), and neither does he surrender. Swallowing back the many, many things he wants to _shout_, he keeps his voice low and rises to his feet. "You killed me twice yesterday," he says matter-of-factly. "The first time was an accident, and perhaps I had it coming; I was baiting you after all. But the second... I certainly didn't appreciate that. " Lelouch pulls open the closet door and takes out several items - among them, a full-length, sand-colored tunic with a hood that will hide most of his face. "I'm going into town. So if you're not going to talk, then you're not going anywhere, either."

A strangled "Lelouch?" is all he gets, and only when he's already at the door; Lelouch keeps walking, and Suzaku doesn't call for him again after that.

He tries to convince himself this doesn't faze him at all.

**.**

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**

It's a three-mile walk to the nearest town. Lelouch leaves the house with just a watch and a large, empty basket to his name. He stops only to refill the sheep's water trough before heading for the road.

Normally it's C.C. who makes these trips; it's less dangerous that way, and even if someone were to recognize her in this place - well what of it? The people who would have cared about her existence are either no longer alive or simply don't matter now.

She volunteered for the arrangement herself, the first week they settled down; he'd accompany her only on few occasions, several times a year when he would borrow a phone and speak to Nunnally. He would have been grateful, had C.C. not gone on to say this justified her doing nothing else around the house, but he supposed this was a small victory in itself.

Lelouch reaches his destination in a little over an hour; he's in no hurry, and the time alone helps him think, if only a little. Right away he heads for the town square, where eager merchants and dancing women go about another day. He waits beside five tables lined against a crumbling brick wall, and it isn't long before one of the seats is vacated.

It's comforting that even here, with old sand-filled hourglasses and a board little more than lines carved into the tables, the rules of chess haven't changed.

In thirty minutes he has swept all of the tables and spoken very little, with a heavy pouch of coins for his trouble. The people here are polite, more graceful losers that the nobles back home can learn from. He smiles every time, but he supposes the cloth hiding his face makes it useless.

C.C. brought back several books from her trips in their first year, so he's come to know the language of this area decently enough. As he trades in his winnings for various things, from a jug of cream to smoked meat wrapped in old newspaper, he understands - if brokenly - what the merchants discuss amongst themselves today.

"...declared it the other night."

"Where did you hear this? On the radio?"

"I heard about that too. Really, right after the funeral."

Lelouch nods and bites his tongue as he accepts his change, but the heavyset, bearded man barely even looks at him.

"Is it a civil war if they're both (something) in the E.U.?"

"What does it matter? (Something) is, it's starting again. Do you think Britannia will (something)?"

"I don't know. But I hope it doesn't reach us."

**.**

**

* * *

.**

However much his thoughts churn during the long walk back home, they stop completely when he sees Suzaku up on the roof.

"What - " (He shouldn't be surprised, he tells himself; for someone who could break steel with his kicks and support both Lelouch _and_ Shirley up with one arm, those bindings shouldn't have posed much of a challenge. He only hopes Suzaku didn't completely wreck the bedposts in the process.) " - in God's name are you doing up there?"

Suzaku glances up at the sound of his voice, freezing in the middle of his self-imposed task. He's taken the stiff broom from the closet in the house - the one made entirely of sticks, bound by heavy black rubber - and there are crude bandages around his wrists.

"I figured out your problem," he announces as soon as Lelouch can park his purchases on the porch. "In a word, there's too much _junk_ up here. There wasn't...and so the rain..." Suzaku stops, and wrinkles his nose. "You should probably see for yourself."

Lelouch wants to inform him, right about now, that if he thinks they can just pretend their derailed conversation this morning never took place, he has another thing coming. After all, although most of the anger has ebbed away, the questions have not. But Suzaku has been avoiding his eyes all this time, so perhaps that means something. "How did you even get up there?" he asks instead, noting the woeful lack of ladders or any meaningful footholds along the walls.

Suzaku smiles wryly. Laying the broom down onto the roof, he walks over (effortlessly) to the edge, crouches down and offers a hand.

...Which isn't an answer, at _all_, but by the time this thought makes it through Lelouch is already being pulled up. The metal roof is warm even through the thin material of his shoes. He fights back the vertigo when Suzaku releases his arm.

"Only step along where the nails are," Suzaku instructs, pointing down. "They always go in a line; it means there's a support beam right underneath."

"I know that much," he scowls. But he's never been up here himself, and he sees, if begrudgingly, the wisdom in that statement.

He also sees, for the first time, that the corrugated metal isn't otherwise flat, but slopes down slightly. The incline is shallow enough for them to stand and walk without falling over, but it goes against the lines of dips and bumps along the roof, and he finally sees why: at the end of the roof, obscured from the ground by a wooden support that wraps around the perimeter, a thick rubber pipe sliced halfway along its length serves to collect rainwater, channelling it across and rerouting it to the ground behind the house, where the pipe is abruptly cut off.

That's how it works in theory, he guesses to himself, now that seven years' worth of dead leaves, twigs, and other things have been cleared out.

"...So it should be fine now." Lelouch returns his attention to Suzaku's voice as he clears the last of the debris. "The only reason the water was getting in was because it had nowhere else to go." With a sigh, he lays down the broom once more and joins it, settling into a sitting position. He rests his forearms on his knees. "I'd do this every year, at the _least_."

Lelouch sniffs. "We don't own a ladder."

"Get one."

"They're expensive. And C.C. won't lug something so cumbersome back from town."

"Then I'll _build_ you one." Suzaku rolls his eyes. "Seriously, Lelouch, I can't believe you put up with this for so long."

Lelouch chuckles at that, but says nothing. Scanning the roof underfoot, he eventually spies where the next line of nails is; it isn't hard, given how most of the heads have been turned red by rust. It's certainly harder to get comfortable when he decides, after several seconds of inner debate, to take a seat beside Suzaku.

The boost in height isn't all that remarkable; the rooftop at Ashford, the only one he'd learned to frequent, was certainly much higher. But despite this he gets a better view, for the first time, of just how _vast_ their little corner of this country is. From here, he sees where the dusty road disappears into the forest, the sheep grazing contentedly. The sky has darkened somewhat, and the clouds are heavy but seem so much closer.

(The faraway mountains, however, are still as unreachable as before.)

"For what it's worth..." Suzaku finally breaks the silence, and Lelouch spares him a long look. He doesn't return it. "I was careful. I only ever took it at night, so that I'd be lucid in the morning. I never..." He swallows hard. "I'd never be that careless."

Lelouch sighs. He tries not to imagine the chaos that would unfold if Zero were to hallucinate in public, in the middle of something important like a press conference or a grand speech. (But given the way the world turns now, a sinister voice in him asks, would it really make that much of a difference?) "Does Nunnally know?"

"No." Suzaku shakes his head quickly, and his voice is heavy and raw. "I don't plan on her ever finding out."

"Should I should thank you preserving her innocence?" He snorts. "Or should I be furious that you're deceiving her? Which is it?"

"Whichever you think is best." Suzaku gives up the fight with a tired shrug, and he rests his chin against his arms. "Lelouch, I didn't let this impede my work as Zero. I never would. Can you at least trust me on that?"

"Idiot," he says, and it comes out sounding harsher than he intended. "That's not what this is about."

"Then what?"

...What, indeed. He doesn't want to say that, for all that Suzaku trusts his Geass (his _curse_, he'd called it before), Lelouch couldn't use it to save Shirley, and this is why...this is why. He ends that thought with a shake of his head. He isn't going to admit that he's worried about Suzaku, not aloud at least, because from there it's a slippery slope from 'worry' to 'care', and in another breath Lelouch might find himself saying something he isn't sure he still means, but _is_ sure he will end up regretting.

But none of that changes the fact that Suzaku is still here, looking at him. Waiting for a response. His face hasn't changed much from seven years ago, Lelouch notices. Though, he's a bit paler now, and exudes an aura of exhaustion he's beginning to suspect might be permanent. He's lost all of his baby fat, by now. "Lelouch?"

He thinks of how many days they have left, C.C.'s taunting parting words (_"I'll bet you anything you end up squandering the week away before - "_), whether it's worth the risk. The last of these, particularly, he lingers on...before realizing he ought to have stopped caring about that long ago.

"Lelouch, are you ignoring me?"

"Far from it." Lelouch chuckles and shakes his head again, daring to lean in close. "I was wrong, by the way. When you mentioned how we left off? Technicality. It was Zero who killed me that day. Not Kururugi Suzaku. No?"

Suzaku blinks at him. "O...kay?"

And of _course_ he doesn't get it, the idiot. Lelouch rolls his eyes.

Because he's a prideful person. He doesn't see the entire chessboard. And the circumstances are far from ideal - but mostly, it's because _he's a prideful person_ - that he plants no more than a chaste, gentle peck on Suzaku's cheek.

He isn't sure what to call it. It's light and short enough to excuse as meaningless, should the need arise, but close enough to the lips should he decide to...

By the time Lelouch feels the first raindrops on his skin, Suzaku is already kissing him back.

**.**

**

* * *

.**

There's a cliché about kissing in the rain - something about how it dulls your senses, or at least floods them enough to drown out everything else, so that only _this_ makes it through. Something about the urge to take shelter, an ever-present instinct hard-wired into the human brain, but _this_ being more powerful than that.

_So much more powerful._

The rain ceases for him, somewhat, when Suzaku crawls over him and presses his arms carefully against the roof at his sides, never breaking their lip-lock. But he hears the pitter-patter of water against metal, and his wet clothes cling to his skin. He smells the rain. And he thinks that perhaps clichés are clichés for a reason.

**.**

**

* * *

.**

They stumble back into the house, a desperate, clumsy tangle of limbs and clothes and rainwater. Fingers in hair, lips on skin. Suzaku pushes them both inside, ignoring the bang of the front door and the downpour outside. He manages, in the middle of kicking off his boots and unbuttoning Lelouch's shirt, to navigate the living room as though on auto-pilot, steering them away from the furniture. But it is Lelouch who pulls him up the stairs. He breaks kisses to whisper short, blunt promises into Suzaku's ear - free of the flowy rhetoric of old; less hyperbole, more urgency and _now_, 'I want you _now_' - and Suzaku blushes hotly and misses a landing more than once.

But grace is the last thing on Suzaku's mind, although he does pull away enough to steady them as Lelouch trips backwards and nearly brings them both down at the very top of the staircase. He swears, but Lelouch merely smiles, a slow curve of lips the closest to an apology he is willing to offer. And then he reaches up and drags Suzaku off to the side by his collar - the wood of the new railing digs into Suzaku's hip as Lelouch presses him against it, kissing him feverishly, but it doesn't break.

Somehow, they make it to the bedroom. And somehow, even as he has Lelouch pressed to the mattress underneath him, Suzaku finds the strength to pull back. "Lelouch...Lelouch, what is this?"

Lelouch is distracted, kicking off his jeans with a scowl. "What?"

Suzaku stops him with a hand around his wrist. "What we're doing," he says, seriously. Even with his skin flushed and his mind fogged, by more things than one, he feels a frustrating blush crawling up his face. "I mean..." Perhaps Lelouch can already tell at this point, what he's about to ask - the look of exasperation that flashes over his face is proof enough. Suzaku can't really blame him. "Does - does this mean anything?"

Lelouch lets his head hit the mattress. "You know it can't. At least, the last time I checked anyway. So you tell me, does it?"

He almost flinches at that, and then realizes what exactly he'd just dragged them into. Maybe he completely misread Lelouch's intentions on the roof? It certainly wouldn't be the first time, he reminds himself bitterly, as he pulls away. "I'm sorry - "

"No. That's not what I meant." Lelouch grabs him by one of his belt loops before he can get very far, and yanks down without mercy. He lets out a rather undignified yelp, and has to brace his arms against the mattress to _not_ end up colliding with Lelouch, but they still end up with their faces even closer. "What this is, then...let me think." He lets out a shaky breath, stealing a kiss. "Cheating, then?"

Suzaku frowns. "'Cheating'?"

"No? Stealing time, then, if you will." Lelouch smirks. "Suzaku, we're dead. You're a figurehead who serves as a symbol of far too many things to retain any meaningful humanity; I'm a shepherd destined to spend eternity with a witch who won't lift a finger around the house." He tilts his head up, presses his forehead against Suzaku's. "And in roughly seventy-two hours we will be seven thousand miles apart," he whispers. "Does this mean anything? A better question would be: would it matter if it does?"

For everything Lelouch just said, he never really answered the most important question. But Suzaku lowers his head, closes the gap between them. This is good enough.

**.**

**

* * *

.**

_The King of Hearts was Charlemagne. He went down in history as Pater Europae, the man whose Empire reunited most of Western Europe after its long and fragmented struggle. His numerous reforms, which stretched from the military to the monetary and touched everything in between, earned him a Renaissance in his name. _

_Yet he died in deep depression, for despite having lived to a respectable old age, many of his plans had not yet been realized. _

_Later, the Count of the Palace at Aachen would recall how he and Otto III discovered Charlemagne's tomb: there they came upon the glorious emperor seated upon a throne, with a scepter in his hand and a crown atop his head - and, most fascinatingly, with his flesh entirely incorrupt. _

_Or so the story goes._

**.**

**

* * *

.**

This is how Suzaku knows that was real: when Lelouch finally peels himself off the sheets, the expanse of alabaster skin is mesmerizing, but imperfect.

(The Geass symbol on his neck, right over his throat where Charles' hand had been - this, Suzaku has already seen. But he sees something else as well, something lower. The only thing that mars Lelouch's torso - and the rest of him, really - is the scar that remained from a single stab wound.)

He wants to ask about it, just a little. He wants to ask if it hurt, even if he already knows the answer. Such a silly thing, and others, equally silly; he thinks maybe he should wait for this post-orgasmic haze to settle before even opening his mouth.

"That..." But of course, he ends up ignoring his own well-meaning advice. "That was...you're certainly up and about earlier than usual." His lips quirk as he realizes what he just said, and Lelouch rewards him with a raised eyebrow and a laugh. But it's really rather remarkable, to see Lelouch already on his feet and halfway to the bathroom, when not two minutes ago he'd been arched beautifully against the mattress, his hands clawing at the sheets and his legs wrapped desperately around Suzaku's waist. It's a far cry from when they used to do it at Ashford, or even in those days at the Imperial Palace.

"Insecure?" He scoffs and Lelouch laughs again, shaking his head. "No. The Code helps, somewhat. Besides, tempting as it might be, the shower isn't big enough for us both. Unfortunately." He withdraws a clean towel from the closet along the way. "Take as long as you like."

Suzaku watches him disappear into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Dropping his head back down, he buries his face into one of the pillows (and: into darkness, into the scent of sweat and sex and old soap and - )

He holds back his thoughts for as long as this will let him.

**.**

**

* * *

.**

That night, it doesn't take more than two sentences to convince Lelouch to let him sleep downstairs again. The sofa isn't quite as comfortable as the bed, but it's warm and dry and that's all that matters. Suzaku draws the borrowed blanket more closely around himself and stares at the moon through the window; when his eyes adjust, he begins to see the stars, as well. He wonders, after everything that happened these past few nights, how he can still manage to sleep at all.

(But soon he is wondering about something else: how, for instance, his steps falter as Knight of Seven when he yanks his prisoner's arm awkwardly behind the chair. This should have been harder, he recalls dimly, with more shouting and struggling and a stinging slap to the side of his face. That last one, especially - he doesn't feel a thing.

"What's wrong?" He isn't sure why it takes the low, chuckling query to realize it isn't Kallen in this cell at all, but _Lelouch_, wearing his school uniform and a smug smile. "Having second thoughts, Lord Kururugi?"

Suzaku drops his arm.

And then he realizes _what_ he's holding in his other hand.

It takes three seconds to tear off his left glove and strip off his jacket, the snapping of golden cords testament to his sense of urgency. He rolls up the sleeve of his black undershirt as Lelouch cocks his head and watches, a strange smile on his face.

But as much as the needle in his flesh stings, no matter how many times he presses the plunger the liquid just won't come down.

"Well of course it won't." Lelouch answers his unvoiced question as though it's the simplest thing in the world, and when he walks over he's suddenly dressed as Zero, save for the mask. "You're hitting the vein at exactly the wrong angle. Here. Let me try."

He withdraws the applicator and plunges it back in without warning, drawing a gasp from the Knight of Seven that turns into a choke halfway.

"Suzaku." And he lets Lelouch do as he pleases, even when the stabs begin to match his heartbeat in their frequency, even when the pain brings him to his knees and sends tears into his eyes, even when the needle hits bone and snaps somewhere inside of him and Lelouch just keeps on going, leaving that part of his arm a mess of blood and tattered skin. Even as Lelouch, eerily calm, is sporting his white Emperor's robes the next time Suzaku finds the strength to look up. "You must kill me, as promised...")

He's awake before he hits the floor.

Groaning, Suzaku pulls himself up and rubs the side of his head gingerly. He finds the lamp by the sofa, and the room is bathed in yellow light as he switches it on (thank _gods_.)

The clock above the fireplace informs him he'd been asleep less than two hours.

He flips every light switch on his way to the kitchen, and the water is frigid as he splashes it on his face.

And then there isn't anything left for him to do. Squinting, he shuts off the tap and looks around. Going upstairs is out of the question - he doesn't want to wake up Lelouch at this godforsaken hour. Briefly he entertains the thought of making coffee, or even cooking something, before realizing he doesn't know where Lelouch keeps anything.

There are two doors off to the side, across the stove and with a whimsical caricature of a house, done in cross-stitch (C.C.?) framed in between. One of them, if he recalls correctly, leads to the pantry, and he tries the one on the left without thinking too much of it.

It's the wrong one, as his luck would have it. But he sees stairs leading down, an inky blackness two steps in, and all thoughts of food and coffee are suddenly gone.

Suzaku fetches one of the long candles from the dining room and returns with it, only stopping to set it down when it illuminates a dangling cord that connects to a single, bare lightbulb. Cautiously, he makes his way down.

The room smells of dust and cool earth - a root cellar, from the looks of it, and from the abundance of potatoes, carrots and turnips in piles across the floor. One of the walls has been converted into a wine rack, half of it occupied; he takes out a bottle at random and isn't surprised to find it unlabelled.

He's about to head back up when he sees something else, though: at the very end of the room, beyond all the crops and stored provisions, he sees a stack of medium-sized cardboard boxes, six of them in all. Or perhaps it's the bright-red flashlight atop one of the boxes that draws him in, so out-of-place in this room; walking over, he picks it up and switches it on - not only does it work, but the light is actually intense. The batteries must be new.

And then - because he's curious, and because he's _already here_ - he lifts the lid off the box in front of him.

**.**

**

* * *

.**

Lelouch awakens earlier than usual that day. He knows without looking at the clock because it's barely light out, and not yet quite as hot as he'd expect. Glancing down at the bed, he finds the space beside him empty.

And he remembers.

He remembers, as well (all _too_ well) what else took place on these sheets yesterday. They haven't really talked about that - not yet, he amends as his feet touch the floor. He suspects they might have to, sometime soon. He isn't exactly looking forward to that.

"Suzaku?" Lelouch frowns when he finds the sofa empty, a discarded blanket its sole occupant otherwise. He steps outside and checks the roof again - empty. Scanning the fields, he sees nothing but sheep.

(And certainly Suzaku wouldn't hazard straying very far from here?)

He isn't sure why the cellar is the last place he thinks to check. But when he opens the door and sees light from the inside, he feels the dread sink in and realizes he would much rather talk about what happened yesterday afternoon, than what Suzaku will surely ask him now.

"I take it, since you're here..." Lelouch doesn't bother to step gingerly; the stairs squeak all the way anyway, and he tries not to let out a sigh as he reaches the bottom. "That you didn't sleep at all last night?"

His presence is met with green eyes that are either hardened or simply fatigued. "You've known," Suzaku says, and his voice is either of the two as well; it frustrates him, that he can't tell which. "All these years...you..."

Lelouch finally gives in and heaves a long, tired sigh. Because he can't deny it - not when Suzaku is sitting cross-legged on the filthy cellar floor, surrounded by open boxes and seven years' worth of dusty newspapers. "I didn't mean for you to find out."

Suzaku laughs hollowly at that. "That's becoming a comfortable trend, isn't it?"

"No," Lelouch snaps, knowing full well to what Suzaku is referring. He kills the thought before it can grow into something ugly and sinister. "That's different; you only assume I waited to spite you, but I already told you that's not so. And this..." He turns away, muttering at the wine rack. "What does this even matter?"

"Lelouch, you were supposed to die. But you didn't, so you came here to hide away. Now," Suzaku gestures towards the newspaper currently spread out before him, "think about what you just said."

He clenches his jaw. Glancing back, he can barely make out the grainy black-and-white photo on the right side of the page: Ohgi behind a podium, several flags in the background behind him - this must be from a summit three years ago, he recognizes. Maybe.

"You know I've been talking to my sister."

"But never about this."

Of course, he thinks bitterly. Even if Suzaku meant it as a question, he feels no need to confirm what they both already know. "Is this really so bad, then?" he says softly.

"No. It's not." Suzaku finally switches off the flashlight, and rubs his eyes. When he withdraws his hand, Lelouch finds them sunken, with dark circles underneath. "How did you even - ?"

"Every time C.C. went into town," he pre-empts, crouching down in front of the other man, "I would tell her to bring these back. It didn't matter when, it didn't matter which newspaper, it didn't matter if there were duplicates or missing pages." Gently, he takes the newspaper back and glances at the date (he was right) before folding it carefully. Suzaku doesn't stop him. "Just, as much as she could."

"You were keeping tabs on us. On everyone. On every_thing_."

Lelouch nods, flipping through the papers in the stack; Suzaku hasn't messed up the order, thankfully -

"You couldn't let go." He looks up at that, and Suzaku meets his gaze with something that is neither anger nor disgust. Lelouch is almost sickened when he realizes it's much closer to _pity_ than anything else. "You're just like..."

Suzaku trails off, and fixes the floor with a despairing look. And then, he gets it. "Just like you?" He _gets_ it, now. "Or perhaps," he appends with a weak laugh, "not. Perhaps, you and I are like my father, and Schneizel. Or perhaps - " (he's rambling now, he's rambling but there's nothing else he can do, nothing else to fill this dreadful silence when Suzaku already has his head in his hands and won't say a damn word) " - that's an unfair judgment. Men aren't defined by their ideals alone."

Then he remembers to whom he's speaking, and thinks of how, eight years ago, this conversation would have taken a drastically different turn. But now, Suzaku only looks at him, his eyes tired and sorry and sad, and Lelouch has to wait through several false starts before he speaks again.

"Do you regret it?" he whispers. "Did we do the wrong thing?"

Lelouch rests his weight on one of the boxes, swallowing back his heart. Because he's had seven years to ponder on both of those questions. But every day, the answer seems to change.

"We did everything we could, Suzaku," he murmurs. "We took a shot, and we happened to fail." Risked everything, sacrificed so much. _Shot the moon,_ only to end up a trick short. "We thought, you and I...we could do anything. We could change the world." He tries to smile. "And we succeeded for a while, didn't we?"

"Five years," Suzaku says quietly. "We gave the world five years."

Lelouch nods, latching on to that thread of - "And we stopped Ragnarok. That counts for something, don't you think?"

"We wanted more than that." (But the line between hope and deceit is thin and sketched in sand, and of course Suzaku won't lie, Suzaku won't grant him this even if he wants it himself.) "And all those people..."

"All who died, be it by our hands or others'." Lelouch gathers up the rest of the newspapers (his records, his only connection to a world that has been breaking once more, before his very eyes) and places the lid on the last of the boxes. "The eternal question, then - was it enough? Was it the best we could have done? Our actions will never be completely justified, but those answers are beyond us mortals. You know that."

Suzaku nods slowly, solemnly. Finally he seems to snap back to the present, and he offers a hand as Lelouch begins stacking up the boxes once more. "Then what can we do?" he asks, with much difficulty.

"We continue paying for our sins, if nothing else." It shouldn't have been so easy to say that, he realizes belatedly. "You continue serving as Zero. I continue living, and," he smiles wryly, "reminding myself every so often how the last gamble we made was short-sighted, and really rather foolhardy." He laughs. "This is the penance I've chosen; it's certainly better than death, wouldn't you agree?"

Suzaku doesn't laugh, only looks at him for a long, hard minute. Lelouch waits for him to understand without saying anything more.

(And eventually, it seems, his patience is rewarded.)

"Well then." Suzaku finally smiles, just a little. It's winsome, and barely there, the slightest curve of his lips. But it's real, because it reaches his eyes. And for this, at least, Lelouch is grateful. "Where do we go from here?"

"Hmmm. Another vague question. In general? I don't know. Today?" Lelouch allows his eyes to fall half-closed, offering a lazy smile. Already, it's getting easier by the second, several of which tick by before he finally responds: "I was thinking of grilling catfish for lunch."

**.**

**

* * *

.**

_Two: this is the number of lobes on the suit (also: the number of parts to make a whole, its center never more clearly defined) and the number tied to the hearts._

_Two: in astrology, this number is associated with opposition, with planets on opposite sides of the sky. It is ruled by emotion, spirituality and love - a perfect match for the suit of hearts. It evokes partnerships, relationships, dependence. And, above all of those: trust._

Two: the number of miles they have to walk before reaching the nearest stream, where the water bubbles cool and clear and tastes almost the slightest bit sweet. Lelouch sets down his fishing pole and finds a spot that is dark-green, almost black - _this_, he tells Suzaku, and _here_.

Two: the number of minutes Lelouch has his line in the water before Suzaku strips to the waist and dives in without preamble. "Don't worry! I did this with Kallen when we were stranded on that island!" he announces, and it isn't long before foraging for lunch degenerates into a friendly competition, until the sun is on its way down and the pail Lelouch brought is filled with more catfish than they can eat in a week.

Two: the number of days he has left to spend with Suzaku, Lelouch realizes as they begin the long trek home. He wonders where C.C. is now, and how Nunnally is doing - both, failed attempts at deflecting more pressing notions that he would rather not entertain.

"What are you thinking about?" Suzaku asks him, out of the blue.

Lelouch regards him out of the corner of his eye. Suzaku has the pail and the fishing rod slung over one shoulder, and his damp hair clings to his forehead and temples. And in that moment - _completely_ against his will - he imagines what it would be like if Zero simply disappeared, if Suzaku could spend the rest of his years here with him and C.C. They would while away mornings tending to the garden and afternoons looking after sheep. They'd take turns going into town, and he would _finally_ have some help with the housework. Maybe Nunnally could even visit, once he figured out the logistics of her trip.

But then the house comes into view, and Lelouch faces him with a broad, easy smile. "Nothing. Nothing at all."

.

[ _end of act III_ ]

.

* * *

Three down, _one _more to go! (Thoughts? Why yes, I'd be glad to have them!)


	4. iv

Disclaimer: _Code Geass_ – with its characters, settings, and all other borrowed elements here – is the sole property of its creators. I own nothing, though you know – I would if I could.

(for overall warnings, see act I)

* * *

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_full house_

**act iv **

**.  
**

While the games he played against many a nobleman were always predictable, the gambling den itself was not. Sometimes everything would go smoothly, and he would either slide into his seat in front of an untouched board (_Black, always_) or take over a 'hopeless' position left by an inept player who didn't believe in second chances. Other times the rooms would be double-booked, and until a space opened up he and Rivalz (or Rolo) would be forced to either wait or wander the halls.

Occasionally, Lelouch would try the latter. Once, he made his way past poker tables and slot machines, drawn to a small crowd that had congregated around a lanky man with a wide-brimmed hat and an even wider smile, standing behind a counter.

His challenge was simple enough: 'Find the queen.' He showed them the Queen of Clubs that day, and placed it between two other cards - Aces, Hearts and Diamonds - before turning all three over and shuffling them across one another.

The first few times, the stakes were low and the Queen of Clubs was always in the center. But on the last shuffle, after the exact same hand-motions and a particularly drastic ante-up, she was just no longer there.

"I saw what you did," Lelouch murmured to the man as soon as the crowd had dispersed.

The man didn't look up from counting his take. "Hmmm?"

"During the last round." Lelouch picked up the cards without asking permission. "You did it differently. Instead of throwing the Queen down, you did this." He pinned the card against his ring finger, allowing one of the Aces to slide into its place instead. He let the Queen fall and flipped it over, proving his point. "There was nothing remarkable there, it was just sleight-of-hand."

"Good eye." The man chuckled, and refuted nothing. "But it doesn't matter. Not everyone has that. And people only ever react to what _they_ see." He took the cards back and thumbed them together in one hand, grinning the whole way. And then he laid them out on the table: the entire Royal Family, of the suit of Clubs. "Even if it's a lie."

"Lelouch?"

The memory fades and vanishes at the sound of that voice, and with a blink Lelouch turns away from the window. "Sorry," he says with a smile. "Did I wake you?"

Suzaku shakes his head. Moonlight seeping through the glass sends soft shadows playing over the bare skin of his torso, his legs tangled in the sheets beneath. His wrists are tied together above his head - cloth, this time, looped around a column of the wooden headboard. "What are you doing over there?"

"Just getting some air," Lelouch answers him, truthfully. "Go back to sleep. I'll join you in a bit."

But Suzaku merely shifts on the bed, as much as his bound wrists will allow, until he is lying on his back and facing the ceiling. He heaves a sigh, and then he doesn't speak for some time.

"I had a dream. About Nunnally."

Lelouch cracks a small smile. "Oh?"

He nods. "It was that time we tried to make you a cake for your birthday. The servants at the house had no idea what half of those ingredients were, so we had to..." Suzaku laughs a bit, fondly. "It was supposed to be a surprise."

"Of course it was." He recalls peering through a crack in the kitchen that day, at the half-opened bag of dry ingredients purchased from the market across town. There, he was able to watch a nine-year-old boy ineptly following Nunnally's patient, spoken instructions, with flour and sugar and egg yolk smeared over his face and hands...for all of thirty seconds, before he realized this was _ridiculous_ and joined them in the kitchen. "But I appreciated it nonetheless, no? And you would have burned down the kitchen if I hadn't intervened."

"Yeah." Suzaku isn't smiling. "I wish we could do that again."

Lelouch drops his gaze. "Me too." There's no denying he wants to see his sister again; he wants to see what she looks like now, after seven years, face-to-face and not through a second-hand snapshot in a newspaper. He wants to hear her voice. Bringing her here will be difficult, if even possible at all.

But he managed it with Suzaku, didn't he? Maybe, if he can time it so that -

"Lelouch...I didn't mean to kill her..."

He frowns, unsure of what to make of that for a few seconds. He crosses the room with long, quick strides the moment he does, seating himself on the edge of the bed and taking Suzaku's face with his hands, tilting it towards the feeble light.

(His eyes are hazy, half-lidded, with the pupils dilated. And while they seem to be focused on Lelouch's face, he isn't quite sure what they see.)

"...Go back to sleep, Suzaku," he manages.

Suzaku shakes his head again, weakly. "I never should have let them equip the FLEIJA - "

"Go back to sleep, Suzaku," Lelouch says, loudly (tightly) this time.

"I know you won't forgive me for what I did," he whispers. "I won't forgive myself, either. But, Lelouch...if this is the only reason you're going through with this..."

Lelouch sighs, staring down at his hands. He wonders, if he leaves the room, if Suzaku's hallucination will fall apart. Or, if it will simply be replaced by something else - something more potent, perhaps? He wonders if this is part of the withdrawal process, or another malady entirely; as far as he recalls, they never had _this_ conversation. "'This'," he probes carefully. "Zero Requiem?"

Suzaku nods his head. "Is there no other way?"

A small part of him almost wants to laugh. "Having second thoughts?"

"I'll do whatever you ask me to," comes the reply. "I promised you that much. But..."

Lelouch pulls back. "Suzaku - "

"I don't want to kill you."

For a long time he just looks into Suzaku's eyes; he doesn't know whether to think that the earnestness he sees in them now may have one day, seven years ago, been genuine. And all that pain, all that regret - whether it's coming from somewhere important, or really just a side-effect borne of abusing Refrain.

But if Suzaku is simply dreaming, he tells himself - well, it doesn't matter what he says, does it? Anything exchanged between them here and now will all be for naught in the morning, once the hallucination ends.

That's how it works, right? It has to be.

Lelouch buries his face in his hands. And then, he thinks of Rolo, and of the strange man running the three-card-monte at the gambling den, when he pulls his hands away to reveal a smile. "I'll think about it, Suzaku. All right? We've already come so far - everything from here on was planned with the Demon Emperor's death in mind, but..." (It's odd. Lying, he's come to learn, is supposed to be much easier than this, especially when it's for some higher purpose. But he stifles the part of him that finds this sickening and goes on.) "Maybe we can figure something else out. I'll try. Let me sleep on it, all right?"

If anything, the way Suzaku finally relaxes, leaning into Lelouch's hand on his head with a small sigh, is somehow worth the trouble. "Thank you." He smiles. "You'll think of something."

Lelouch's thumb ghosts over his brow. "I don't know about that."

"You will." Suzaku smiles more broadly now, and his eyes slide shut. "I trust you."

And here Lelouch can think of nothing to say that _won't_ shatter the illusion. So he doesn't say anything at all.

**.**

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**

That morning, Suzaku wakes up to find Lelouch sitting at the side-table, blowing on a cup of tea, filling the air with the scent of lemons. He frowns when he notices his arms already untied. "Did I hurt you?" he asks, immediately, to which Lelouch shakes his head and flashes him a strange smile. ("No, Suzaku. Not at all.")

**.**

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* * *

.**

Later that day, Suzaku grits his teeth as wind whips through his hair and catches on the ends of his trenchcoat. It's a welcome change from the sluggish heat of the past few days, he thinks, and yet still the thought of going back inside is tempting.

But he promised Lelouch. And he's almost done, so he can take a few more minutes of this.

The wind mercifully dies down a bit when Suzaku finishes nailing the last of the rungs to the stringers. With this done, he picks up the shipwright's adze at his feet (one that Lelouch salvaged on the second year, tossed among the rest of the tools and promptly forgot about) and runs it along the ladder's sides, and then wherever it can fit between the rungs.

Though, he supposes it doesn't really matter now, not when Lelouch has the Code.

Sighing, he looks over his handiwork and hoists one end of the ladder over the fence. There, one of Lelouch's sheep watches him boredly as he straddles the ladder and braces his hands against the stringers near the top, testing its strength.

"What do you think?" he asks in jest. The animal merely looks at him, continuing its program of slow chewing. "Yeah, I thought so." He slings the ladder over his shoulder without further comment, picks up the tools along the way and makes his way slowly back to the house.

He's going to miss this place, he realizes without really wanting to. It's not as lively as the city, nor as sophisticated as the Kururugi shrine, but...but. Something about how _quiet_ it is here, how cut-off they are from the rest of the world, is oddly appealing. Even the insufferable climate has begun to grow on him, and it's barely been a week.

But it's better than he deserves, he reminds himself as he places the ladder on its side beside the house. And he made another promise, seven years ago. This is why he can't stay.

"C.C. should be here a bit before noon tomorrow," Lelouch tells him as soon as he enters the house. "The plan was to have you take the jet back alone. Will that be alright?"

"Sure." He thinks of Nunnally, how firm she was in that last press conference, and how delicate she'd seemed in the gardens. It's disconcerting to think that, in less than thirty-six hours, he'll be donning that mask and suit once more. He hopes the last order he gave was enough to keep Schneizel in check.

"Packed already?"

"I didn't really bring much," he confesses. He deposits the tools he borrowed in their usual spot before padding into the kitchen. Lelouch is busy stirring something in a large pot. "Sick of me already?" he jokes weakly.

"If self-deprecation were a virtue, they'd have built a monument in your honor by now." Lelouch rolls his eyes and Suzaku chuckles at that, but stops when he whirls around, bringing the ladle to Suzaku's lips with remarkable dexterity. "Taste."

Suzaku shrinks back on instinct, protesting, "Hot! Hot!"

"Oh, for the love of..." Lelouch glares at him, before blowing on the liquid petulantly. It's milky, but the taste reveals chicken stock, and a hint of ginger and pineapple. "More salt? What?"

"It's good," he comments, licking his lips. "What is it?"

"Something different." Lelouch stirs once, before sampling it himself. He hums tonelessly around the edge of the ladle. "C.C. hates it with a passion."

"Which is why you made enough to last the rest of the month?" Suzaku laughs, pointing at the massive pot.

"It's the least I can do to spite her," Lelouch smirks.

"For ditching you?"

"For what she did to _you_." Lelouch smiles at him fondly, and opens the cupboard door above his head with one hand before he can think of anything to say to that. "Here, help me with this. There's one last thing I want to show you tonight."

**.**

**

* * *

.**

It's been fourteen years since he's last seen the sky like this.

Here, without the blinding city lights or the desperate flares of a military encampment, there are only these: darkness, the moon, and thousands of stars.

"And that one?" Lelouch nods, pointing up.

Suzaku squints. Lying atop a thin blanket in the middle of the field, blades of grass tickling the skin of his arms. The night-time breeze prompts a pleasant shiver, and it carries with it the smell of wildflowers. "Which one?"

"That one." Lelouch gestures more precisely, somewhat straining his arm, as he traces out the constellation: seven stars, three close together in the center.

He remembers this now, from fourteen years ago, atop the hill behind the Kururugi shrine. "Orion."

"Excellent." Lelouch smiles as he brings his arm down. "Though the people here call it something else, entirely."

"What do they call it?" he asks curiously. Lelouch tells him, and his lips quirk. He tries to pronounce it, several times, but the prolonged _l_'s and harsh, truncated _k_'s elude him.

"Don't worry about it." A soft chuckle cuts through the rustle of leaves, and the bleating of a faraway lamb. "It isn't important."

"Of course it's important. It's not - " Suzaku frowns, and then shoots to sitting position when something bright streaks across the sky. "Did you see that?"

Lelouch, however, doesn't even budge. "It's probably not what you think it is," he drawls. At Suzaku's pointed stare, and the obvious unspoken question, he shrugs. "Aircraft, maybe?"

"...Really?" he scowls, not buying that in the slightest. When Lelouch merely raises an eyebrow, Suzaku shakes his head and looks back up: whatever it was, it's no longer there. "If I ignore what you just said, do I still get a wish?"

"A wish?" He doesn't need to look to know that Lelouch is quietly laughing at him. "Are you serious?"

"No." Suzaku catches himself, realizing how winsome that sounded. Drawing his knees up to his chest, he locks his arms around them and stares back up at the sky. "You don't get to make fun of me," he teases back. "You were the one who told me about it, remember?"

"I remember," Lelouch sniffs. "Your point?"

"...I guess I don't have one." Suzaku smiles wryly, locking his eyes onto the three stars making up Orion's belt. "We believed it though...was that really so long ago? It's funny how, you're a kid and you see a shooting star. You make a wish. You get all excited, because you know it's going to come true." He chuckles. "And then you grow up."

He feels Lelouch's eyes on him for a long time before the other man speaks. "What would you wish for?"

Suzaku wrinkles his nose. "I'm not _telling_ you! Then it won't come true."

Lelouch groans, digging his knuckles into his eyes. "You are _such_ a child," he grouses.

Suzaku merely grins at that. Tired of straining his neck like this, he leans back and stretches out on top of the blanket once more. He laces his fingers behind his head and takes a deep breath - no smoke, no perfumes, no artificial air fresheners.

Just this.

"I wish we had a second chance," he murmurs softly. "You know...to make things right."

He doesn't get much relief as a reward for admitting this - not that he was expecting any in the first place. Still, the world doesn't stop for this confession: the breeze keeps on blowing, the leaves keep on rustling, the sheep keep on bleating in the distance. He keeps on breathing.

And the silence stretches on for so long that, for a moment, he begins to suspect Lelouch may have fallen asleep. But a quick glance proves him completely wrong, when he sees Lelouch fixing him with an unreadable stare.

"What?"

"You're an idiot," Lelouch mutters, propping himself up on one arm. "Why did you say that aloud? Now it won't come true."

Suzaku nearly chokes on his laughter. "So you _do_ believe?" he manages, between snickers. "From now on, you don't ever get to call me immature - mmph!"

And then Lelouch is kissing him, hard, and he doesn't really understand why. He doesn't understand, before his eyes slide shut, why Lelouch's are smoldering, a dark and glittery violet even in the dim moonlight. He doesn't understand the desperate press of Lelouch's hands on his shoulders, or why Lelouch pulls back only to whisper, "Shut up," before kissing him again, _harder_ this time, with his fingers tangling in his hair until Suzaku finds he can barely even think.

But he welcomes it, anyway.

**.**

**

* * *

.**

That night, almost a full two hours after they first stumbled back into the house, Lelouch flashes an unseen smile at an exhausted Suzaku, brushing the hair out of his eyes.

He waits until the hour changes. And then he swings his legs over the bed, retrieves his clothes and dresses mutely.

He doesn't bother tying Suzaku up, tonight. Because the Code is a marvelous thing, but it's not _this_ that fuels his steps as he exits the bedroom, making his way downstairs.

It takes far too long to lug two of the boxes up into the dining room, but he manages eventually. Because the root cellar is just that - a _root cellar_, and while it's more than adequate to store all of these things, it doesn't allow for much else. It doesn't allow him to _work_.

Lelouch supposes that's what he's doing, as he brings out the most recent newspapers - two and a half years' worth. He places the stacks on the other chair and skims through them chronologically, a pair of scissors and a pencil by his side. There, quickly exhausting the large surface of the table, he builds a crude timeline out of news clippings and annotations: the world, two years ago. Twenty-three months ago. Twenty-two. And so on.

(Intermission: A feature article from a newspaper dated March 1st, 2021. There, a young girl opened up about her experiences with Refrain, how it tore her family apart. Her mother, especially, suffered the most, but she was past that now and that was all that mattered. Eight lines from the bottom, the interviewer asked her how long it took for her mother to recover completely, to which she replied, after some deliberation: _"I'd say...twelve months. Give or take."_)

Lelouch puts this carefully aside.

He gets up from the table at four in the morning, only to withdraw an old map of the world from the cellar and bring it back upstairs. He spreads it over the table and empties the pin cushion from the sewing kit in the second drawer, marking cities accordingly. He arranges the clippings and looks for trends. He makes sketches and notes all over the oceans, until the pencil is blunt and he has to sharpen it with a knife. And again. And so on.

At some point, he thinks back on all the phone calls he shared with Nunnally, noticing how much older she sounded every time. He thinks of merchants exchanging portents of doom.

And, most of all, he thinks of Suzaku.

**.**

**

* * *

.**

_The King of Clubs was Alexander the Great. His mother believed him destined for greatness even while still in her womb, while others believed his father may have been Zeus himself._

_Trained by Leonidas, and then by Aristotle, Alexander was king at twenty. By thirty, he had created one of the largest empires in ancient history. His desire: "to reach the ends of the world and the Great Outer Sea."_

_He would ultimately wind up falling short. _

_But failing to reach such a lofty goal did nothing to undermine Alexander's brilliance - in battle, he suffered not a single defeat, which is why he would go down in history as one of the greatest commanders of all time._

**.**

**

* * *

.**

He thinks of Suzaku when he steps back and looks over his handiwork just after sunrise, going over all the implications in his head.

And - for better or for worse - he _understands_.

**.**

**

* * *

.**

The sun burns, in much the same way as it did when he first got here, when the plane arrives.

"For what it's worth," Lelouch quips, "I had no idea she'd even taken something from you, much less something that important. I don't approve, but." He shrugs, and there's a hint of remorse in his eyes. "I would have stopped her."

"Thanks." Suzaku allows himself a small smile, pushing up his sunglasses. The sunlight is too bright, blinding off the sides of the plane. But soon there will be none of this, so he figures he'll take as much as he can get. "I don't resent her for it, by the way. It's fine."

"Hmmm. Noble."

They both watch as the plane finally touches the ground. But just as Suzaku begins to walk towards it, he feels a hand on his arm.

"Suzaku." Lelouch looks at him with gravity, and his grip tightens when Suzaku acknowledges him. "Stop this. Alright? Do it slowly, take as long as you need to wean yourself off of it safely. But get clean."

Suzaku breathes a sigh, and looks away. He supposes he ought to be surprised Lelouch waited until the very last minute to tell him this at all. But... "I'll try," he says weakly.

"No. I want you to promise. Because..." He looks up at that, and when he does Lelouch sets his jaw. His eyes are burning, but it's not the same as last night. Nowhere near the same. "In a year, I will send for you again. And things will be _different_, so I'll need you at your peak. Do you understand?"

For several seconds Suzaku just stands there, unable to do just that. But comprehension dawns eventually, and when it does - he swallows hard. He tries to fight back the sudden surge of hope, if only because he can no longer deny it for what it is. "You mean...?"

Lelouch smiles. But warm as it is, he sees traces of the other man's all-too-familiar smirk in there, somewhere. And his voice drops until it is barely audible: "Last night - you wished for a second chance, didn't you? I accept it: that Geass."

Suzaku takes a breath. He eyes part of the sigil peeking out from the top of Lelouch's collar. And then he nods, fisting his hand and bringing it up to his chest.

But he doesn't say those three words, because they no longer apply. Not anymore (or: not yet).

He doesn't know who started the kiss - he only knows that it is slow, deep, fervent. It is _'thank you'_ and _'promise'_ and _'goodbye'_, and so many other things, at once.

It is over the moment the engines die.

**.**

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_And the Knave of Clubs - that was Lancelot._

**.**

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.**

_Three: this is the number of lobes on the suit (also: the number of other forms it can take - clovers, flowers and in some countries, acorns) and the number tied to the clubs._

_Three: this number is tied intimately to how we perceive our universe - and, perhaps because of this, repays all of the superstition and folklore in which it is immersed. It is either lucky (third time's the charm) or not (third light; and one, two, three - gold, silver, death.) Yet it is invaluable for synchrony, and for balance - in both cases, the least required to accomplish either._

Three: the number of seconds C.C. lingers by the plane as Suzaku approaches, before making her way to Lelouch's side. There, she gives Suzaku several short, bland words that Lelouch can't hear, but he hopes they approximate an apology.

Three: the number of minutes it takes before the jet is finally airborne. They watch its ascent until it disappears into the clouds above, and in that time Lelouch finds himself reliving everything that took place this past week: every word, every glare, every caress; every laugh, every nightmare, every kiss.

Three: the number of times Lelouch lied in seven days (and the number of times it should have hurt less).

"So." C.C. thrusts a wrapped bundle at him without saying hello, an odd curve to her lips. "This was unexpected. What's this I hear about a year?"

Lelouch nods shortly, peeling the cloth away - a new chessboard still in its box, pieces in glass and black marble - before breaking into a slow smile.

**.**

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_And all time is stolen time._

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[ _end _]

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Notes:

- '_Full house'_ is the term for a five-card combination hand in poker. It's composed of three-of-a-kind plus one pair.

And…that's actually all. Ahahaha. Seriously, I'm not sure what else there is to say about this fic. Um…it was a good experiment, and I learned a lot along the way? (I did, though).

Anyway, thanks so much for reading! Cake and hugs as well to those who shared their thoughts along the way. (pokes at ghost-readers with a catfish) C'mon, you know you want cake and hugs too…

I kid. I love you all. See you (maybe) next fic!


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